


Hear Me Out

by deesaster



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Dwarven Politics/Traditions, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Bilbo Baggins, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Rebuilding Erebor, Slow Burn, Thorin Is an Idiot, courting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5864947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deesaster/pseuds/deesaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins reaches Ravenhill in time to save the lives of two brothers and their uncle, unfortunately at the expense of his own safety. Thorin Oakenshield feels guilty and indebted, so he swallows his pride and sacrifices his principles in order to stop the Hobbit from succumbing to his wounds.</p><p>Their unacknowledged, mutual need to protect each other may or may not have something to do with the fact that they are each other’s One. As their frail friendship is left in an uncertain place in the aftermath of the Battle, both of them feel more confused than ever once they start figuring that out for themselves. </p><p>A tale involving a comatose Hobbit, political intrigues, gratuitous side pairings, and ridiculous amounts of angst and pining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ravenhill

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This has been a project since last summer and I'm happy I found the courage to start posting it. It's still WIP, but I have no doubt that I will finish it.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my wonderful beta, [Elizabeth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/existentialnerdcrisis/)!!

Bilbo’s breath is heavy and ragged as he rushes through the ranks of Azog’s army. Iron and steel blades spin chaotically around him with deafening clashes, covering the Hobbit in black and red splatters. His ears ring with shrieks and cries of pain and terror. Metal weapons roar, armours clink and dent, limp bodies fall to the ground with wet thuds.

The foul smell of blood makes Bilbo light-headed and he often feels the need to cease his wild run and throw up. But he doesn’t stop and keeps on racing, his feet slipping on the ground coated in thick layers of dark blood and muddy snow.

The Ring on his finger makes everything easier by slowing down time, dulling the bloodcurdling battle sounds and concealing him from the aim of the Orcs. Despite the fact that he has the great advantage of being invisible and wearing an impenetrable mithril shirt, he still can’t avoid every swing of the weapons dancing violently around him and he senses the cold tips of the blades grazing him slightly from time to time. But Bilbo is numb to their burn and he ignores them.

‘Endure and keep running,’ he tells himself. Later, he will count his scratches and tend to them. If there is going to be a ‘later’.

He stumbles, dodging every hit headed his way. There are countless clusters of Orcs and packs of howling wargs with bloodied fangs circling them and Bilbo curses the retreat of Thranduil’s army, the stubbornness of Elves and Dwarves altogether and the fact that the Elves let the Dwarves down again when they needed help most.

His frustration fuels him as he makes his way out of the battlefield and starts going uphill. The air becomes more breathable and the enemies lessen in number, also reducing the harrowing cacophony of screams and metal clashes to a mere buzz serving as background noise for Bilbo’s internal torment. He welcomes the change wholeheartedly. The Hobbit suppresses a shudder at the sight that greets him when he finally slows down and stops to look back and soothe his constricting lungs.

There is pandemonium down in the moorlands that lie before Erebor. It’s not hard to notice that the armies led by Dáin, Bard, and Thranduil are greatly outnumbered and struggling to hold their ground. If the news brought back from Gundabad by Legolas and Tauriel turns out to be true and a second army is on its way, all of them will surely perish on the slopes of this mountain. Bilbo urges himself not to think of the possible outcomes of the battle and focuses on his current mission. He sees the Company scattered all over the battlefield, fighting tooth and nail to defend the gateway to the Mountain.

Bilbo spots Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur backing each other up as they slash through the enemy’s formations along with the brothers Ri. Dori and Nori are trying to protect Ori by keeping him behind them, while the young Dwarf is fiercely taking aim at Orcs with his slingshot. He observes Balin skilfully wielding a cutlass and staying close to Dáin’s side, while Glóin and Oin are twisting their axes strategically in the front of Dáin’s host, biting left and right at the Orcs who dare to approach them and shouting battle-cries in Khuzdul.

Seeing his friends fight so fearlessly for their newly-reclaimed homeland and never once quivering, but bravely bearing the brunt of the enemy’s harsh strikes, gives Bilbo hope and he resumes his climb, quickening his pace.

There is slippery ice covering the steps hewn from rock, a thing that unfortunately hinders his progress. He finds it challenging to tread up on the steep stairs, but he manages to reach the landing without falling, albeit being robbed of breath and having a sharp ache in his side. His feet are numb and bloody and he can’t tell if the blood is his own or a combination of the spilt, mixed blood that paints the ground down below. ‘Or maybe both,’ Bilbo thinks and shivers at the very idea.

The watchtower serving as Azog’s stronghold and point of command lies across a frozen lake that breaks down into a waterfall. Bilbo wishes he could take a moment to imagine how beautiful this place would be in the summer, but also when an army of Orcs isn’t probably hiding in the old edifices. It appears abandoned and the crafty signalling mechanism Azog used to order his army is left behind on top of it, the freezing wind blowing roughly at the flags. Bilbo strongly believes it’s a trap, an illusion meant to lure the sons of Durin directly into slaughter.

He sees Thorin, Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli assessing the situation from a distance. Bilbo realises he’s not too late, that he made it just in time to warn them and his heart races with relief and hope. Thorin turns around and orders his nephews in a manner that suggests urgency, but also trust.

“Fíli, take your brother. Scout out the towers. Keep low and out of sight. If you see something, report back. Do not engage. Do you understand?”

Bilbo’s eyes widen and he barely remembers to take off the Ring, in his desperate attempt to stop the King from sending his kin into a deadly trap.

“Thorin!” he shouts, praying to Yavanna that Thorin isn’t still set on murdering him over the theft of the Arkenstone and that the stubborn Dwarf will heed his warning.

The last time Bilbo saw Thorin, it was this very morning, and the Dwarf was holding him over Erebor’s battlements, strangling him and threatening to throw him down to his death. Bilbo knows his throat must be bruised black and blue by now and he tugs at his coat, unconsciously trying to cover his neck.

Bilbo’s worries prove to be groundless, as he can read only relief and surprise in Thorin’s eyes and voice. The Dwarf exclaims his name, coming closer to Bilbo. His reaction shows no resentment and Bilbo dares to hope that the King’s mind was freed from the madness that had taken control over his mind and fogged his judgement.

“Thorin, you have to leave here, now! Azog has an army attacking from the North. This watchtower will be completely surrounded, there’ll be no way out,” the Hobbit speaks hastily while still gasping for breath, heart leaping out of his chest.

Dwalin’s expression betrays sheer disbelief upon hearing Bilbo’s news.

“We are so close! That Orc scum is in there. I say we push on.” The old warrior’s voice is deep and unwavering.

Fíli and Kíli look alarmed and torn between listening to their Uncle’s previous order and staying near the battlements, not going across the lake. They share a hesitant glance at each other, hands still on their weapons. However, Thorin quickly weighs Bilbo’s words and sees truth in them, understanding that what waits in the crumbling tower is only a vile ruse set by the Defiler, who means to end his bloodline.

Bilbo frets and switches his weight from one foot to the other tiredly, while he waits for Thorin to make up his mind. The Dwarf’s blue eyes widen in realisation and he hurries to talk, his idea opposing Dwalin’s, but matching the tone the old warrior used previously.

“No, it’s what he wants. He wants to draw us in. This is a trap. Fíli, Kíli, stand back,” he says, meeting Bilbo’s eyes and nodding curtly, his dark hair swaying in the cold wind and catching snowflakes. Bilbo nods back nervously.

“Thorin, are you sure about this?” Dwalin asks.

“Yes. We’ll live to fight another day,” Thorin turns around, a look of determination in his eyes.

Bilbo allows himself a tiny smile of relief, and follows them, even though a creeping wave of apprehension settles in his gut and he is unable to ignore it. The four Dwarves attempt to return to the battle rams they used as mounts and Thorin holds out a hand towards Bilbo, ushering the Hobbit and intending to help him up on his own ram, but sharp noises which Bilbo dreadfully identifies as being the beats of a battle drum can be heard from the watchtower.

Torches are lit, slowly engulfing each of the tower’s loopholes in blazing light. Bilbo’s breath catches in his throat, his skin crawls and he bites the inside of his cheeks in trepidation. There is a dense mist reigning over the frozen lake, but the Hobbit and the Dwarves effortlessly recognise the pale silhouette emerging furiously from the crumpling edifice.

Azog is vehemently barking in Black Speech to his minions, raising the stub of the hand Thorin cut off so long ago. There is a gleaming bifurcated sword attached to it now and Bilbo all but shivers at the sight of it. A dull, marching sound is heard from the valley behind Ravenhill, joining in with the rhythm dictated by the battle drums.

“We must get out of here, _now_ ,” Bilbo speaks as soon as he figures that the second army is closing in, but he gets the feeling that no one is listening to him.

Thorin can hardly take his eyes off Azog, a look of pure ferocity and resentment etched upon his face. His cerulean eyes are narrowed, his shoulders form a tense line and his hand is clawing at the sword resting in the sheath at his hip. Bilbo knows Thorin wants nothing more than to bolt without a plan and engage Azog in a fight to the death, but that would be suicidal right now, as they are clearly outnumbered. Even Thorin must know that. But the Dwarf still takes a step forward.

Bilbo’s hand lunges for Thorin involuntarily, seeking to stop him, but his fingers barely brush the fur collar of Thorin’s coat as the Dwarf rushes towards the lake, Fíli, Kíli, and Dwalin following him without question. He curses the stubbornness of Dwarves silently. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Tauriel and Legolas climbing the hill and he feels slightly thankful that their number rose. There would be seven of them against a whole army of Gundabad Orcs.

‘It could be worse,’ Bilbo thinks as he unsheathes Sting, which is glowing eerily blue, acting as a source of light in the thick mist. The Hobbit can swear that the blade is humming, eager to taste Orcish blood, and the light vibrates steadily in a fair warning of the creatures’ proximity. He grips the hilt confidently, determined to protect his friends in whichever way he can and, guided by the hollow sounds of the Dwarves’ footsteps on frozen stone, he enters Ravenhill’s labyrinth of fortifications.

 

 

~*~

 

Bilbo barely eludes the blow of an Orc’s mace with a less-than-gracious spin, driving Sting viciously through the back of the creature’s chest in retaliation and moves on to the next enemy. He feels his spine crack at the rough movement as he ducks another hit and then jolts aside like quicksilver when a stray arrow flies past his ear with a blaring hiss. He grits his teeth and readjusts his hold on Sting’s handle.

He cannot say for sure how long it’s been since they started fighting off the Orcs that keep coming in endless waves; it feels like hours though, and Bilbo knows he can’t possibly last much longer. His arms are already weak from relentlessly handling Sting and he easily loses balance every time he blocks a hit or lunges forward to strike or slash.

He is vaguely aware of Tauriel and Kíli fighting off Azog’s war chieftain and son, Bolg, somewhere far to his right, and Legolas assisting them from afar, rapidly shooting arrows with incredible precision. Bilbo smirks at the thought of the captain of the Mirkwood Elven guard and Thorin’s younger nephew, who obviously fancy each other, but should basically be natural enemies, working together to take that repulsive brute down. Bolg is no lesser of an opponent, but he knows that the two of them are more than capable of eliminating him.

Bilbo makes a small promise to himself that, if they still were to hopelessly dance around each other after making such a fantastic team together, he will take the matter into his own hands. He is a Hobbit after all, and Hobbits are peculiarly, but unsurprisingly good at playing matchmaker. Bilbo has the facts already. Fíli told about what happened in Laketown between Tauriel and Kíli and how his maudlin brother is pining after the redheaded Elf, although quietly. Moreover, judging by how alarmed Tauriel looked when she had heard earlier where Kíli was, Bilbo is pretty sure that she felt trapped in the same situation as the Dwarf.

Several minutes later, he casts a furtive glance towards the two of them and sees Bolg slain. The redhead and the brunet are now fighting back to back, Tauriel with her dual daggers, swiftly lashing at enemies, bright hair flowing, and Kíli with his sword, tactfully piercing any creature that comes close. Maybe their blossoming liaison doesn’t need Bilbo’s intervention after all. Not yet, at least.

However, he doesn’t catch any glimpse of Thorin or Fíli, which worries him beyond measure. Bilbo last saw them heading over to the watchtower, where Azog was sighted quite some time ago. He and Dwalin have been trying to follow them since, but treading through the ranks of an Orcish host proves to be most challenging. Dwalin has been sticking with him almost since the skirmish started and he mainly tries to keep Bilbo out of harm’s way, rather than leaving Bilbo behind and rushing to Thorin and Fíli, which Bilbo knows he truly wants.

The Hobbit doesn’t think he is useless though, despite obviously having Dwalin as a hobbitsitter –Bilbo guesses that Thorin ordered him to stay back and look after him – because not only does he manage to take out Orcs on his own, but he rather enjoys the spike of adrenaline it gives him. He also is tempted to take the Ring out of his pocket, put it on and stealthily dash to Thorin’s side, where he strangely feels the need to be, but he knows he’d have some explaining to do afterwards. He is quite fond of his Ring and he’d hate to see it taken from him and to even have people know about its existence.

The Orcs finally lessen in number and Sting’s glow starts to dull. Dwalin turns to him and waves his forefinger with authority at Bilbo, pointing at him.

“Stay put,” the Dwarf all but growls at him, then nods grimly and puts some space between them, letting Bilbo to fend for himself. Not that he necessarily needed the warrior’s help and supervision anyway.

Dwalin heads over to some small buildings further on the hill, probably planning on clearing them out of Orcs who may be hiding in and Legolas seems to briefly agree, as he follows his example and puts away his bow, draws out Orcrist and strides in the opposite direction. Bilbo narrows his eyes at the sight of Thorin’s sword in Legolas’ possession, but he has neither the time nor the power to intervene.

Bilbo takes out one last Orc with a blunt hit of Sting’s hilt and finds himself making a mental note to thank Dwalin and Glóin for the lessons they gave him in armed combat during the journey.

The Hobbit thought them tiring and useless at first, as they hadn’t been pleasant at all, especially after a long day’s travel on the back of a pony. He definitely didn’t plan on engaging in a battle at the time. But Thorin insisted that he was instructed on how to use his sword, probably so that he would no longer be a burden that needed constant protection in crises or emergencies.

Dwalin and Glóin weren’t gentle and they didn’t do much explaining at first, so Bilbo often found himself tackled and obliged to defend himself in whichever way he found best. Then Dwalin taught him how to keep his stance and hold the sword correctly, how to guard, parry or counterattack and many other tips that Bilbo’s mind doesn’t remember, but, thankfully, his muscles do.

Fíli and Kíli were Bilbo’s constant partners in his suffering, and the brothers often empathised with him, because Dwalin had been training them ever since they were wee lads and thus, they were familiar with his brutish way of teaching. But that did not stop them from laughing at Bilbo, along with the rest of the Company (yes, Thorin included), when the Hobbit found himself on the ground, after taking a blow or after just simply having slipped or stumbled. Which, honestly, used to happen a lot.

Besides Dwalin’s harsh lessons, Glóin showed him some tactical step sequences and often duelled him when Bilbo had finally got the hang of it. Those lessons didn’t make a true fighter out of him, but they were enough for Bilbo to steadily hold his ground and maybe kill an enemy or two without getting himself injured.

Even though those evenings spent by the fire defending himself against two seasoned warriors were sour and frequently ended in pain and tears, he is grateful for every black bruise and cut he got; they surely prepared him for what he is going through at this very moment.

Now that he’s found some time to stand still, his head starts swimming. His muscles ache and his lungs wheeze painfully. He feels his heart beating irregularly, his limbs pulsing uncomfortably. Hobbits undeniably aren’t built for battle, but he doesn’t let himself relax; he knows it’s not over yet. There is still no sign of Thorin and Fíli and his stomach churns unpleasantly when he imagines the worst. He approaches a battlement facing the lake, stands up on his tiptoes to see better and scouts the area carefully.

The mist lowers the visibility considerably, but Bilbo’s sharp eyes manage to pierce through. The first thing that captures his attention is a gigantic amputated war troll moving fast towards the edge of the waterfall. Towards Fíli and Thorin who got separated and are fighting off the remnants of the Orc group who ambushed them, quite far away from each other.

Bilbo opens out his mouth to scream in warning, subconsciously knowing it would be in vain, as his voice wouldn’t carry out so far in the mist to be heard above the Orcish shrieks. He sees Thorin getting disarmed, his sword sliding down the ice, far away from his reach and Bilbo is overwhelmed by crippling panic. The troll is closing in and Bilbo bolts, his knees wobbling, and he jumps down a flight of stairs, drifting out of control on the ice. Maybe he will make it in time.

The troll lunges at Thorin and Bilbo is too far. The Dwarf has no weapon to defend himself and he is down on the edge of the waterfall, half of his body clinging dangerously above the chasm, close to falling to certain death.

Bilbo’s bare soles glide uncontrollably on the slippery surface and he lands painfully on his stomach, too far, always too far, his breath halts violently and he feels the world stop as the creature’s enormous mace aims for Thorin. Thorin closes his eyes in acceptance and resignation and–

Orcrist comes whooshing down from above and impales the troll with amazing precision, pushing the now inert creature down into the abyss. Thorin quickly catches the handle of his sword and pulls it back, black blood covering the slim blade.

Bilbo spots Legolas on the top of the broken watchtower, a stern expression on his face and he watches the Elf come down gracefully. The Hobbit finally regains his breath and gets up, ignoring the intense pang of hurt in his ribcage. Once he finds his balance, he hurries to Thorin’s side.

“Are you alright?” he addresses the King. Bilbo’s voice sounds shaky and conveys pure concern.

Thorin nods slowly and rises to his feet. He glances cautiously at Bilbo, perhaps looking for signs of injury, and then assesses his surroundings. His bright eyes glisten in dismay when he looks back at Bilbo and asks, “Where is Fíli?”

Bilbo senses the familiar rush of apprehension as he spins on his heels, eyes searching for the fair-headed Dwarf. He remembers that Fíli was battling a small horde of Orcs not far from where they stand now, but there is no trace of him. Fíli wouldn’t just leave without letting his Uncle know. Besides, something must have gone wrong if he didn’t help out Thorin when he was disarmed and about to be mauled by a troll. Bilbo wants to call out, but he deems that unwise. Ravenhill is swallowed by an unearthly silence that certainly has no place on the site of a skirmish and something feels amiss, much like before, when they were about to be ambushed.

Thorin seems to quickly comprehend something and steps closer to Bilbo, facing him. The Dwarf leans almost imperceptibly towards him and places a gloved hand on Bilbo’s shoulder lightly.

“Bilbo, go find Kíli and Dwalin. We need to go after Azog. Tell them to come here, and then you go back. This is no place for a Hobbit,” Thorin says in a low voice, which sounds strained and slightly desperate.

The Dwarf’s request, however, does not match Bilbo’s plans.

“No, I’m not leaving you alone here, Thorin.” He shakes his head disapprovingly and goes on, “I can help. I promise I won’t get in your way.”

Thorin removes his hand from Bilbo’s frame and balls it into a fist at his side.

“Just do as I say, Halfling.”

Bilbo knows Thorin is under pressure right now, with one of his nephews missing and Azog still on the loose, but the Dwarf could use any help he can get, wanted or not. And he dully notes that Thorin didn’t deny that Bilbo could be of use.

He doesn’t wane under Thorin’s authority, on the contrary, he huffs, and stubbornly replies, while gesticulating to further prove his point, “You can’t order me to leave. I’m not one of your subjects and you certainly aren’t my King. I don’t care what you say, I’m staying.”

Thorin frowns and then fleetingly sets eyes upon the Hobbit’s neck, where Bilbo knows bruising must have formed from their earlier encounter today. The Dwarf’s frown deepens, and he tries to say something, but Kíli and Dwalin’s arrival disrupt his line of thought. Bilbo is relieved to see them, and appreciates the fact that Thorin doesn’t have a reason to send him away anymore.

“See, one of your problems is solved, right there,” Bilbo pats Thorin’s forearm in assurance, and then points at the two approaching Dwarves.

“We’ll talk later,” Thorin grunts at him, then softens his voice, “We have much to discuss.”

Bilbo knows he undoubtedly refers to what has transpired between them on Erebor’s battlements, and he averts his gaze from Thorin and focuses his attention to the other two Dwarves.

Kíli’s hair is disarrayed, and Dwalin is red in the face from effort. The younger Dwarf beams at Bilbo and pretty much flings the Hobbit into a bone-crushing hug, “Bilbo! Thank Mahal you’re alive! We thought you were taken by those filths when Dwalin said he couldn’t find you.”

Bilbo mutters a quiet ‘sorry’ to Dwalin once Kíli lets him go. He isn’t really sorry for coming down here, but he knows that disobeying Dwalin’s instructions wasn’t exactly respectful of him. The old warrior squints at him warily, but doesn’t seem to be too upset. On the contrary, he looks rather relieved, if Bilbo reads his expression right, and he feels a tiny pang of guilt for worrying the Dwarf.

Before Bilbo could say anything else, Dwalin faces Thorin and tells him, “Thanks to that Elf lass and the bonny Mirkwood Prince, we cleared out most of the towers and possible hide-outs.”

“Any sign of Azog? Or Fíli?” Thorin asks, wiping the black blood off Orcrist on his thigh with a nimble flick of his wrist. When he’s done, he looks his old friend in the eye. Dwalin shakes his head slowly.

“Why? Where’s Fee?” Kíli questions his uncle insistently.

When Thorin presses his lips together in a thin line and doesn’t reply, Bilbo does so for him, delicately, and avoiding to look Kíli in the eye, “We don’t know.”

Dwalin curses under his breath and Bilbo clearly notices Kíli’s body stiffening. A disconcerting silence settles between the four of them, and Bilbo can almost see wheels spinning in the Dwarves’ heads. He knows they’re trying to come up with a plan quickly, and can’t help but say, “Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

Bilbo’s words don’t have the soothing effect he aimed for. Thorin’s eyes keep darting to the broken watchtower where they first spotted the Pale Orc. They know they have little time. If the others are assuming what Bilbo also is, then Fíli is in huge trouble. Bilbo starts considering telling the Dwarves about his Ring and suggesting that he scouts the tower, if Thorin thinks that there’s where Azog is, even though Bilbo personally believes the Orc isn’t as stupid as to use the same hiding place twice. But he would go nevertheless. Surely he could come and go unnoticed.

Before he can make the proposition, they witness movement on a rocky mound above them. There is no need to go after Azog and coerce him out of hiding. The Orc, followed by a few of his surviving minions and his white warg, has come out of his own accord. But Fíli is dragged by the neck by the Defiler, and he’s trashing and wrenching as Azog holds him high above their heads.


	2. Something Worth Fighting For

They don’t have time to do anything. All they can do is watch Fíli struggle in the hands of the enemy and Bilbo feels his blood running cold. Kíli’s brown eyes glisten as he watches his brother, his lower lip trembles and his hands are balled into fists, knuckles white and twitching. Dwalin mutters a ‘no’ in disbelief, refusing to accept that the scene unfolding right before his eyes is happening.

Thorin holds his breath. Bilbo watches him swallow hard, shaking his head imperceptibly, eyes bluer than ever, shoulders slumped. Bilbo has never seen Thorin so weak and defenceless, and something inside him breaks a little when he realises this.

Azog is barking in Black Speech, looking pleased with himself, and they don’t need to know the language to understand the poisonous words he’s spitting. His subordinates shriek and snicker like insane hyenas and the Azog’s white warg howls loudly at them. Bilbo doesn’t hear a thing.

He thinks about Fíli, lionhearted Fíli, always cheerful and kind. Fíli, who always tries to find the good in everything and everyone. He befriended Bilbo when no one in the Company trusted him yet, when Bilbo felt lonely and regretted the choice of coming along on the journey.

Fíli always managed to bring a smile to Bilbo’s face with the jokes and shenanigans he usually shared with his brother. He remembers how Fíli always tried to protect Kíli, how he knew when to be serious and when to listen to his uncle, how he respected him more than anyone, and he always cheered the Company up with his contagious optimism and laughter.

Fíli will be a great king someday and Bilbo refuses to imagine a world in which the young Dwarf is no more.

He can’t remember when exactly he put his Ring on and leapt up to a set of stairs with an unusually fast speed, calculating the shortest way up on the rock, where Azog was on the point of impaling Fíli and throwing him in front of Thorin, Dwalin, and Kíli.

His Ring slows down time again and everything around him becomes a blur, allowing him some time to think his moves through. If he’s lucky, Azog will keep on bellowing in that wretched language of his, most likely spewing a vile speech on how he won’t give up until the ancient line of Durin perishes at his hand. If he’s lucky, Fíli will still be unharmed by the time he gets there. If he’s lucky, he’ll brush past Azog’s mutt and his pathetic underlings –no more than ten, Bilbo counted– undetected and do whatever comes to his mind first, in order to help Fíli get free.

Fíli’s voice makes Bilbo’s heart tug painfully as the young Dwarf yells at his kin to flee while they still have enough time. Azog places the tip of the blade attached to what was left of his arm against Fíli’s back with a sickening sneer, looking for a suitable place to protrude between the ribs.

Bilbo has no idea how he got up there so fast, but doesn’t ponder on what he thinks is the mysterious power of his Ring guiding him. The Hobbit raises Sting as high as he can and lowers it, with all the force he can muster, down on Azog’s functioning arm.

The Orc doesn’t let go of Fíli immediately, but he howls in pain and watches the wound in confusion as it starts to draw blood. Bilbo raises Sting once more and strikes again, this time harder. He watches with disgust, nearly gagging as the black blood oozes out of Azog’s ripped flesh.

Fíli safely escapes the Orc’s strong hold without falling off the rock, and now he is meeting the other three Dwarves halfway, all of them taking out the rest of Azog’s minions. Bilbo gets distracted for a moment, watching them and doesn’t pay attention to Azog, who is roaring in agony and squirming, blindly slashing with the weapon attached to his stub at the air in front of him, as if looking for an invisible enemy.

The sharp tip of his blade briefly grazes Bilbo’s chest, but doesn’t pierce through the mithril shirt. Instead, it comes up fleetingly and scratches the Hobbit’s cheek.

Bilbo feels the blood trickle on his face and instinctively raises his hand to inspect the cut. His fingers find a gash that isn’t deep, but stings badly. Azog’s eyes widen when he feels the contact through his arm and sees the droplets of blood on the tip of his sword. He stomps closer to where he presumes Bilbo is, seeking him out with his weapon and letting out a roar.

Bilbo barely avoids his slashes and finds himself pushed towards the edge of the cliff. He sees Thorin and the others coming closer, ready to face Azog, who is finally alone and seemingly defenceless.

Just as Thorin is about to maneuver Orcrist in a strike meant to end the Pale Orc’s miserable life, a swarm of goblin mercenaries comes down screeching from the peaks of the mountain, aiming to surround them. Azog sees the opportunity brought by this distraction and flees without showing an ounce of hesitation, holding his wounded arm to his chest.

Bilbo thinks the Orc is aware of the fact that he stands no chance against the four Dwarves together and that’s why he chose to flee, but the Hobbit is smart enough to guess that this isn’t their last encounter with Azog. This wasn’t even the worst they’ve seen of him yet. But Azog is alone, he has no more Orcs at his command and, hopefully, no more tricks or schemes up his sleeve. They finally have a chance at taking him down.

Bilbo faintly hears Dwalin telling Thorin that there are no more than a hundred mercenaries and he and the brothers can take care of them, urging Thorin to go after Azog. Fíli wonders aloud about Bilbo’s whereabouts and locks eyes with his brother, exchanging a worried glance, while they draw their weapons and prepare themselves to meet the swarm. Bilbo doesn’t remove the Ring as he promptly follows Thorin, without giving the decision much thought.

Bilbo’s thoughts are disarrayed, but, to his surprise, he manages to get his priorities straight. It’s not hard. The Hobbit knows he cannot say anything to stop Thorin from facing Azog on his own and that under no circumstances would Thorin let Bilbo stay by his side during a battle, especially after what transpired between them with the whole Arkenstone ordeal. This is why Bilbo chooses to silently follow Thorin, without him knowing it.

However, he’s just a Hobbit with no extensive training in combat. He’s not exactly weak, no, but he’s not strong either. Surely Thorin wouldn’t need his help since the Dwarf is more than capable of handling Azog on his own, but something inside Bilbo _shivers_ at the thought of leaving Thorin alone, of not being able to do something in case Azog gets the upper hand. It’s something that Bilbo does out of sheer instinct, something he can’t quite explain.

So, regardless of what Thorin might think about Bilbo’s little plan, the Hobbit makes a promise to himself to keep Thorin alive at any costs. He already failed once, earlier, when Thorin was close to being mauled by a troll, but thankfully, Legolas succeeded where Bilbo could not, returning Orcrist to its rightful owner at the same time. He cannot afford any more mistakes.

Bilbo wonders where his loyalty comes from and why it drives him to behave like this. He and Thorin aren’t on the best of terms at the moment, Bilbo is aware of that, and perhaps that is why the Hobbit should not be doing what he currently is.

Lately, Thorin has not exactly been a person whose actions Bilbo would normally appreciate. Thorin was blinded by his gold lust and thus, he went back on his word, broke his promises (which consequently has led to the situation they’re currently in) and did things he wouldn’t have done otherwise.

In spite of that fact, he tried to judge Thorin’s actions objectively, without adding in his personal distaste, and considering what Balin told him about the dragon sickness being a curse that preys on the folk of Durin, Bilbo reached the conclusion that Thorin isn’t to blame for his behaviour.

Yes, Thorin did _hurt_ him, both physically and emotionally. He threatened to kill him, he strangled him and called him a traitor. Something that Bilbo unquestionably is not; all he did was try to make things right, his loyalty has _always_ lain with Thorin.

Bilbo did not steal from Thorin Oakenshield, nor did he betray him. His wrongs, if they had to be called so, were done to a mad king who definitely was not Thorin Oakenshield and did not resemble him in any way. But this is just a mere technicality, a matter of semantics that wouldn’t be taken into consideration at a court trial. Bilbo is aware of the possibility. Treason _is_ treason, and he’s done it against Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. So, he’s left with two possible options for the future.

On the one hand, if Thorin were to apologize for what he had done to Bilbo, Bilbo would undoubtedly forgive him. He already has, but he doesn’t know if Thorin took it all personally and perceived Bilbo’s betrayal as being genuine _._ If it’s like that, Bilbo doesn’t hope too much for an apology, but after all of this is over and if they’re both alright, he will tell Thorin he is sorry for deceiving him, even though he doesn’t regret the theft of the Arkenstone.

Had it not been for what he’s done, Thranduil and Bard would have torn apart Erebor with no regard for the Dwarves, in search for what they considered theirs. Bilbo knows that they are indeed entitled to it (at least Bard and the people of Laketown are) and that Thorin gave his word, but surely war isn’t the right way to obtain their share, not war against _Dwarves_ of all creatures anyway.

Thus, his actions delayed the war that could have started between Dáin’s army and Thranduil’s, and Bilbo would lie if he says that he doesn’t feel a tiny bit proud of himself.

He’s proud of everything he has done for Thorin and the Company. Maybe Thorin will appreciate what he’s done, too, but Thorin broke their _friendship_ , and banished him from Erebor. This is not a speculation, Thorin said so, loud and clear, and therefore, his chances of Thorin forgetting all of this and seeing the good in Bilbo’s actions are slim, unfortunately. But he still chooses to call Thorin his friend, despite the Dwarf’s words at the gate.

Thorin’s rage, fuelled by his sickness, is what made him say them, and perhaps he didn’t truly mean them. Again, Bilbo is playing with odds here. But what is important, and Bilbo is quite astonished to realise this, he doesn’t blame Thorin and he holds no grudge against him. And maybe Thorin will choose to let go of it too, once he sees that everything that Bilbo has done, he had done it for him.

On the other hand, it is well within Thorin’s right not to abolish Bilbo’s banishment from Erebor. He could very well put Bilbo on trial for treason and theft. He did commit crimes against the crown and there were hundreds of witnesses present. If Thorin made him leave and never come back or had him tried for his crimes, Bilbo would have no choice but to respect Dwarven law and comply.

Dwarves are haughty and their laws are harsh and unforgiving. He’s well aware that the punishment for theft is losing one or both hands, and for treason, especially one as high as this, is, well… _death_. Bilbo would face it all nonetheless, he’s a respectable Hobbit and he will not flee in the face of law or fate. He’s not afraid of Thorin. He was, before, but not anymore. But he doesn’t know what to think.

Would Thorin, a sane Thorin, see him punished, maybe even _killed_ for his actions? And how would Thorin react to Bilbo following him just now, when he clearly didn’t want Bilbo up here, on Ravenhill in the first place?

Seemingly, from what Bilbo can tell, and he hopes he’s not just delusional or in denial, Thorin has his judgement back. His friend hasn’t changed and thankfully, the gold sickness didn’t affect Thorin permanently.

He’s still the person that Bilbo decided to pledge his service to months ago, the person that Bilbo is still so very fond of. So, no matter what Thorin has done when he wasn’t himself, and whatever Thorin’s decision regarding what happened will be, Bilbo decides to forget about it and follow Thorin even if it leads to his very own death. He’s doing the right thing. He can see it clearly as he closely shadows the Dwarf’s cautious, but hurried steps on the ice.

Lastly, in Bilbo’s long, tangled line of thoughts, stands the reason why he’s doing all of this, forgiving Thorin so easily and protecting him, in spite of what he has done. Thorin is the King under the Mountain, a king who earned his title and is worthy of it, a king who endured the wrath of dragon fire and suffered more than anyone could imagine for his people, who put aside his pride and was not ashamed to break sweat for his people and to sell the ancient heirlooms of his House so his family would not starve. A king who took back his kingdom from the talons of a fearful dragon and now bravely, selflessly, defends it.

Thorin is loyal, kind-hearted and valiant, albeit stubborn and proud. His flaws are easy to ignore when compared to his qualities. Bilbo is more than content with calling Thorin his friend and he would do anything for him. He already faced a dragon out of pure loyalty for him and he would do so again if Thorin asked him to.

The Hobbit knows no one whose life is worth more than Thorin Oakenshield’s and if he had to put Thorin before himself, he would do so in a heartbeat. After living his life comfortably for fifty years, hidden from the world in his hole in the ground, Bilbo Baggins finally found something worth fighting for. Thorin needs to survive, to fulfil his destiny and Bilbo is determined to make sure that happens.

After all, Bilbo is no more than a mere Hobbit with no family waiting for him at home. His home isn’t worth more than Thorin’s. Bag End, even though Bilbo treasures it beyond measure, doesn’t even come close to the Lonely Mountain. Bag End is not irreplaceable.

Erebor is ancient and beautiful, a real legend of prosperity and wealth which an entire people call home. And it is up to Thorin to defend it, now that he has reclaimed it in the name of Durin and all of the Dwarves that were left without a home decades ago.

Of course, a sane Hobbit wouldn’t dare think of a place like Erebor as a comfortable, proper home, but Bilbo can see why the Dwarves love it so fiercely, after coming to know them so well. He sees and understands, and he feels protective towards the Company. He will come to their aid in whichever way he can.

He understands the look of longing that sometimes settles on Bofur’s kind face, the tiredness in Balin’s eyes and Dwalin’s strong grip on his battle-axes. He understands why Dori mothers Ori so much, why Glóin talks so proudly and so often about his family, why Nori became a thief when he actually used to be an honourable King’s Guard back in Erebor.

He understands why Bifur looks so sorrowful when he sculpts toys and figurines, why Óin angrily scolds the members of the Company when they get hurt and why Bombur enjoys cooking and always insists on always doing it, even though it reminds him of his dead wife.

He also understands that Fíli and Kíli are too young to know what they’re fighting for and that the flames in Thorin’s heart burned him up on the inside until all that was left of him was ashes and smoke. He sees the perpetual sadness in Thorin’s eyes, hidden under an almost unbreakable layer of cold determination.

But he also saw the looks on the Dwarves’ face when they first set eyes upon the peak of the Lonely Mountain and how it couldn’t possibly compare with their reactions when they finally reached the slopes and opened the secret door, when they finally arrived home.

Bilbo thinks of his old, quiet and uneventful life back at Bag End and doesn’t miss it all that much.

 

~*~

 

Azog is waiting for Thorin on the lake. He stands tall and looks defiantly at the Dwarf, wordlessly daring him to come closer. The pain from the wound that Bilbo caused him most likely cleared his mind and sharpened his senses, because the Defiler looks more confident in his own strength than he was before.

For once in his life, Bilbo truly feels fear and he has the time to analyse it, to thoroughly drown in it. It’s the kind of fear that makes a person go insane, the kind that poisons rationality, twists reality and toys with minds, driving one insane. Bilbo blames the feeling on the Ring and tries to ignore it, knowing that he perceives the world differently when he wears it.

Blood drips down from Azog’s torn flesh, darkening the ice at his feet. Bilbo watches the wound bleed openly and feels morbidly proud of his handiwork. The Orc curls his lip into a mocking sneer, meant to taunt. The white scars and the expression etched on his grotesque, deformed face disgust Bilbo. He shudders involuntarily when he sees how much taller and wider Azog is compared to the Dwarf. At least Thorin can make up for it in agility, speed and skill.

Thorin unsheathes Orcrist and steps closer. Bilbo sees the tension in his muscles and the tiredness in his deep blue eyes. His irises look almost grey in the light dulled by the mist. The Dwarf’s handsome face is half-covered in dried blood, some of it his. He’s white as a sheet and Bilbo cannot exactly pinpoint the emotion he must be feeling.

Thorin’s lips are slightly parted and a trickle of blood runs down from his mouth to his chin, darkening his beard. His breath is unsteady and warm, fogging the air in front of him in an erratic way. There is an oblique gash on his forehead, above his left eye. It’s not too deep, but it’s bleeding and blurring his vision. Bilbo thinks it matches the one he just got from Azog, on his right cheek.

Thorin’s braids are out of place and the wind toys with them, further tangling the locks streaked with grey. There are snowflakes adorning his shoulders and clinging to his hair. Observing at him so closely, it’s so easy to notice just how strikingly _beautiful_ he looks.

Bilbo suddenly feels the urge to reach inside his pocket, get his handkerchief out and wipe the blood off Thorin’s features gingerly, then arrange his dark mane, drawing his fingers through the tresses to untangle them and pulling them back so they won’t get in the King’s way. Bilbo frowns at the unusual, but distracting thought and wishes it away, treating it like an unwanted itch that must be ignored.

With every step he takes closer, Thorin understands better that this is inevitable, and so does Bilbo. As much as the Hobbit wants to stop him and listen to that annoying, irrational little voice inside his head telling him to drag the stubborn Dwarf away to safety, away from that vile creature, he accepts that this cannot be avoided.

So, Bilbo mutters a curse under his breath that would make his mother turn in her grave and mirrors Thorin’s moves. He grips Sting tightly and keeps close to his friend, prepared to intervene, if needed.

Thorin picks up his pace and meets Azog in a clash of weapons. That first screech of metal against metal startles Bilbo, but gives him enough time to circle the two of them and slash quickly, but efficiently, at the tendons behind Azog’s knee.

Bilbo moves back and huffs proudly as the Orc’s leg fails and he is left crouching on his good knee. Thorin is surprised and confused for a second, but he recovers and seizes this chance, gripping Orcrist with both hands, and strikes.

Azog rolls away instinctively from Thorin’s strike with barely enough time to avoid the blade and lets out a loud grunt of pain. Both the Dwarf’s and the Orc’s feet slip uncontrollably on the ice. Bilbo catches the Defiler eyeing a square boulder attached to a thick chain –a makeshift flail, the Hobbit guesses– at the edge of the lake and he assumes that Azog planned to use it in battle, but due to complications (also caused earlier by Bilbo himself) he is no longer able to wield it. Azog may be extremely resilient and tough, but he’s definitely not invincible.

Bilbo smirks and plans his next move, while the Pale Orc gets up limping and charges at Thorin blindly. The Dwarf anticipates it, dodges and manages to drag Orcrist along the Orc’s abdomen. Bilbo thinks he heard Thorin mutter his name with uncertainty, almost as if he wondered aloud if Bilbo is there.

He wants to remove his Ring to let Thorin know he’s not alone and almost does so, but he figures that it’s better if he stays invisible and takes Azog by surprise. The Orc recovers from Thorin’s hit and straightens, only to have his attention averted.

Bilbo hears the squawks first, then he’s hit by several drafts of cold air coming from above, before he sees them. A hint of a smile brightens his soft features and he looks up in disbelief, warm eyes glistening.

About a dozen eagles soar the skies above them, heading to where the five armies still clash and collide. They fly almost like a violent windstorm, their brown feathers fluttering rapidly against the currents. They will probably change the outcome of the battle in their favour, and Bilbo wonders how the others are holding on, and how much they must appreciate the unexpected intervention of the Eagles.

Thorin blinks away the short-lived moment of bewilderment he had and responds to Azog’s sudden charge, barely raising Orcrist in time to parry. Thorin is growing tired and he won’t last much longer. The gold sickness must have drained his strength and Bilbo is not willing to let him make any mistakes now that everything is about to come to an end.

He quickly scans the Orc’s armour in search for a weak point, hoping to finish this as fast as possible, while Thorin unknowingly keeps Azog occupied. He plans to stick Sting between the two of the plates on the right side of the Defiler’s chest armour, aiming for the heart.

But his scheme is not meant to be applied and one of his worst thoughts comes to life. Azog presses his sword harder against Orcrist and sends it flying out of Thorin’s hand. Bilbo watches it happen with dread and feels his stomach drop.

The Elven blade clinks loudly on the ice, far from Thorin’s reach, and his owner is left vulnerable. Azog raises his weapon again, a wide, wicked grin splitting his hideous face.

Fear and instinct take over Bilbo’s body and he throws himself forward, pushing Thorin out of the way. In that very moment, the Ring gets a life of its own and decides to betray him. Bilbo feels it enlarge on his finger, then it slips slowly off it.

Thorin lets out a shocked gasp and Bilbo turns to face him involuntarily, trying to see his reaction. As he turns his head, he sees the Ring glitter tauntingly in the weak sunlight, on the ice at his feet. He never meets Thorin’s eyes, as he wanted.

Azog puts two and two together, spotting the cut on Bilbo’s face, and his confusion wears off almost instantly. The Orc reaches out and grabs him by the neck with his whole, but wounded hand. His grip is strong, despite the damaged muscles, and it cuts off Bilbo’s breath. Bilbo feels his feet leave the ground and he yelps, dropping Sting and raising his hands to slap at Azog’s arm. His palm meets black blood and he deliberately puts as much pressure on the wound as he can manage.

The Orc roars but doesn’t let go, even though his arm twitches and his grip weakens for a moment. The next thing Bilbo knows is that Azog’s weapon tries to break through his mithril shirt, but fails. He starts to see stars and he is choking, the hold on his neck crushing his windpipe.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Thorin getting Orcrist back. With his remaining strength, he tries to kick at the Orc’s stomach, where he knows Thorin wounded him before. It proves to be useless and he gives up, slowly starting to lose his vision.

Thorin comes back running and tries to impale the Orc’s back, but Azog turns around just in time and pushes Thorin aside violently with the side of his blade. The blow knocks the breath out of Thorin and he falls on his back, letting out a broken pant at the impact. Azog’s attention focuses on the Hobbit again and his weapon finally finds a way underneath Bilbo’s chainmail, lifting it.

There is no hesitation, the Orc’s thrust is precise and swift. The sharp blade pierces his abdomen, tearing apart flesh and letting vital fluids flow. The Hobbit opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. He doesn’t feel a thing, but he believes he hears Thorin shouting his name. The Defiler drops him unceremoniously and Bilbo hits his head on the ice with a horrid thump, blood starting to pool freely around him.

Azog walks away, only to be met with Thorin’s tackle. The look in Thorin’s eyes gives away his rage. Caught unprepared, the Pale Orc falls to the ground, his injured knee failing. Azog’s armed stump barely meets Orcrist in time to thwart it from impaling his chest. The Orc grunts, resisting Thorin’s push, his white eyes burning with determination.

Metal scratches against metal, making a shrill sound. Bilbo watches the whole scene without comprehending what is happening, laying on his side on the ice, eyes out of focus. Slowly, Orcrist starts to slide closer to its target, and Thorin breaks the Orc’s resolve, allowing him to drive the sword viciously into Azog’s chest, breaking his armour.

Thorin’s body trembles from the effort, as he pushes the blade through the Orc’s body to the hilt, right into the ice beneath, looking the Defiler in the eye with cold anger as the vile warrior finally meets his end.

Thorin doesn’t bother with removing Orcrist from the corpse. He stumbles quickly to Bilbo’s side, dropping to his knees to cradle the Hobbit’s head. Bilbo is surprisingly still conscious and looks up at Thorin, relieved to see him victorious and mostly unharmed. There is a faint hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his chapped lips. But Thorin doesn’t return it.

“Thorin,” he pronounces his name, breathing it out evenly. His voice is hoarse and it pains him to speak.

Thorin almost chokes when he hears the Hobbit say his name in such a way. He removes his gloves in a hurry, tossing them aside carelessly, and places one hand gently under Bilbo’s head again, with the other moving the mithril shirt up to assess the wound.

He takes in a sharp intake of breath at the sight of it and can’t help but mutter, “Foolish Halfling.”

Bilbo’s smile deepens a little and he coughs soundlessly, blood starting to drip from his mouth. Thorin reaches out and wipes it away softly with his thumb. His fingers linger unnecessarily on the Hobbit’s cheek, feeling the coldness settling onto them.

“This is not how I pictured that conversation we were supposed to have,” Bilbo rasps out with difficulty.

“Then let us save it for another time, alright? Don’t… don’t think about it now,” Thorin replies, making short pauses to steady his voice and not letting his emotions show. He picks Bilbo up lightly, one hand under his knees and the other supporting his head.

There is too much of Bilbo’s blood on the ground and seeing it makes Thorin’s knees go weak. The Dwarf is careful not to move Bilbo too much while he tries to walk as fast as he can, heading for the valley, where he knows he can get Bilbo help. He can see the battle ending below him, the rest of the Orcs retreating and the white healing tents being set up.

Óin should be there. He and the physicians from the Iron Hills can help. Bilbo will be alright. Thorin adjusts his grasp on the Hobbit in his arms, noticing he has started to shiver, and holds him closer while trying to warm him up.

“Thorin, please, hear me out, I think I might—“

“Hush, Bilbo, you’re not going anywhere. I’ll make sure of that,” Thorin interrupts him on a sharp and confident tone. He certainly is not willing to hear the end of that sentence.

Bilbo doesn’t seem to notice that Thorin is carrying him down the slopes of Erebor. He looks up at the Dwarf with hazy eyes. There are so many things that are left unsaid. He wants to say sorry, to tell Thorin his goodbyes, that there is something else that’s been eating at him for a while, but he feels so tired and he cannot find the strength to say anything anymore.

He’s content though, with dying in Thorin’s arms after having successfully protected him in the best way he could. Azog is dead, Thorin is alive and well and the battle is most likely won. That’s all that matters, for now.

He is so numb that he almost can’t feel the warmth irradiating from Thorin’s chest, but he welcomes the embrace nonetheless, raising a hand to clasp blindly at Thorin’s arm, whitened fingers trembling. He entirely forgets about the pain that comes in strong waves, shaking his body. Thorin asks him to stay awake multiple times, but he can’t resist the pull.

He tugs at Thorin’s arm one more time, trying to wordlessly assure him that it’s fine, right before he closes his eyes against his will. It’s almost like falling asleep and Bilbo appreciates the feeling of peace and tranquillity it gives him. The last thing he vividly acknowledges is Thorin’s voice, muttering a barely audible apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, sorry that had to happen. Don't worry, though. Nobody is going to die :D  
> Hope you enjoyed it! If you feel like it, please drop a line below!  
> Stick around for the next chapter :D


	3. A Dream of Cold Stone

A thousand flickering flames drown a stone hall in sorrowful light. Bilbo’s cheeks feel wet and his throat clenches painfully, as if a sob is trying desperately to come out. He walks soundlessly and a strong chill travels down his spine as he senses the cold of the stone floor through his bare soles.

The lights are casting a warm, but far from lively shade on the three bodies lain on uncovered stone tombs. Bilbo wants nothing more but to believe that they are just peacefully asleep, even though there is no hint of a smile on either of their pale faces. But he knows better. He knows what happened. The memory will forever be branded in his mind, always burning with searing pain.

He passes by Kíli first. The golden chainmail worn by the Dwarf glints dimly and a swords lies on his chest, one hand clenched on the hilt, the other resting on the sheathed blade. There are angry scars carved onto the Prince’s young, handsome, but lifeless face. His hair is neatly combed and there are beads of copper and bone braided into it.

Bilbo thinks he sees the ghost of a kiss on Kíli’s pale lips, telling the story of a widowed soul, left alone in this cruel world. Bilbo’s vision is blurred by tears and he moves on, circling Kíli’s stone tomb, refusing to linger and risk being overwhelmed by his grief.

Rich furs adorn the next tomb and a dark mane of hair, streaked with grey, is scattered beautifully on the cold stone. Orcrist’s hilt leans on Thorin’s shoulder and the blade is set in the crook of his elbow. The Arkenstone rests on his stomach, held between his gloved hands. It emanates a pure light, as if it were a star, meant to shine forever in the tomb of the last King under the Mountain.

Bilbo resents the blasted stone even now, when it finds its end, closed away deeply into the Mountain. No one shall ever set eyes on it again; no Dwarf shall ever be tempted into madness by it again.

Bilbo stops by Thorin’s tomb and lets out a sob, along with the tears that have been welling up in his eyes. He feels like he’s suffocating, like his insides are torn, like his lungs cannot function and his heart tries to rip itself apart. And Thorin lies still, cheeks whitened by the breath of death, eyes closed forever, lips curved into a solemn line, never to feel, never to know.

He touches the cold stone with trembling fingers, letting his hand trace the intricate pattern hewn into it. He cannot build up enough courage to touch _him_ , knowing that if he did, he would find stiff skin, void of warmth and life. There are so many words that should’ve been said, so many possibilities that could have been explored. Thorin should’ve lived, and Bilbo would’ve stayed at his side if he asked. Instead, Thorin lies still, cold and motionless, and Bilbo must move on.

Fíli is last, glinting silver beads woven in his light-coloured hair, clad in royal blue velvet. Bilbo can’t help but notice with regret how kingly the eldest Prince looks and tears sting the Hobbit’s eyes again when he thinks of how well the role of King would have suited the Dwarf. A double-edged sword was placed on his chest, mirroring the pose of his younger brother. There are bruises darkening his cheeks and a shallow cut crosses his aquiline nose, marking the unforgiving battle that did not spare his life. 

The Hobbit takes several steps back, overcome with woe. He brings his hand to his mouth and tries to smother his audible sobs. His eyelids are reddened and there are traces of tears on his pale cheeks. This was not supposed to happen. It should not have been like this. This funeral is a paradox; it simply cannot take place. He gave his very best and tried over and over. He should have prevented this.

He suddenly feels dizzy and his vision becomes blurred and shadowy, as if a black veil is set before him. Bilbo starts coughing, the spasms overtaking his lungs and paining his chest. He raises his hand to stifle the coughs, but when he draws it back, he finds droplets of blood on his fingers. He wails in horror and hunches, feeling small and sickened. He stares hopelessly at his hand, only to cough again. His fingers find more blood on his lips and he gasps, suddenly feeling a surge of unbearable pain in his abdomen.

Inexplicably, he tries to run, but his legs don’t work properly. He isn’t sure if his foot slips on the humid stone, or if he deliberately takes one last misbalanced step back. The next thing Bilbo knows is that he’s falling through a dark, never-ending abyss, eyes unblinking and throat raw from screaming.

He realises in a few seconds (eons?) that he’s dreaming, but he just can’t wake up, no matter how much he struggles to rip through the fabric of this horrid dream and truly open his eyes.

 

~*~

 

Down in the moorlands before Erebor, snow is blowing down heavily in a vertical blur. It started to cover the layers of blood on the battlefield and the mud resulted from the mix of earth and old melted snow. Even though the freshly fallen snow doesn’t cover the repelling stench of blood and death, it feels like a new beginning. It’s almost beautiful, at least one would think so if they didn’t know that a violent, hard-won battle took place on this very land just mere hours ago.

Whatever legions of Orcs survived the battle retreated long ago, leaving behind hundreds of broken corpses in desolation worse than Smaug’s.

“So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings,” Thorin mutters lowly to himself.

He taints the impeccable snow with his dirty footprints. The cuts on his exposed skin sting because of the harsh cold, but he has become numb to the pain. There is a slight limp in his walk, but he ignores that too. He’s aware that he’s probably quite the sight, all covered in blood— _Bilbo’s_ blood—, making his way through the white snowfall. He must resemble some sort of bloody ghost.

Thorin forgot how long it took to walk from Erebor to Dale. He left in the dead of the night and now dawn is starting to break. Even though he is walking as fast as he can, he feels like he will never reach Dale in time. His feet trip over dented pieces of armour and forgotten weapons concealed by the growing level of snow. Thorin wishes he had a steed; he is moving too slow for his liking and the pain in his left thigh is growing.

He passes by many people, but he hardly pays any attention to them. Some Dwarves recognise him and stop to salute and bow to their King. Thorin inclines his head in greeting towards them absentmindedly. Most of them ignore him though, be they Dwarves, Men or Elves. They’re searching for their own family, friends or loved ones among the dead bodies and their mourning cries resonate through the battlefield.

In spite of that, there are people helping each other, regardless of their race. Dwarves, Men and Elves alike are working together to clean the battlefield of corpses, by setting them in piles to be burnt. Tents were set near Dale as well, some of them meant to host the Elves or the Iron Hill Dwarves, others to treat the wounded. The Men settled in Dale and they’re now making use of the resources that were left in the abandoned city. Fires can be seen burning high in Dale and people, mostly women and children, are huddling together in the cold, finding each other after the battle. The clutter can be easily heard from afar.  

Near the gates of Dale, he meets by mere coincidence with Dwalin. Thorin barely notices him through the straight blizzard, just when the old warrior jogs to him.

“Thorin! By Durin’s beard, what happened?” Dwalin exclaims after he notices the King’s appearance.

Thorin looks down at himself and closes his eyes briefly, remembering whose blood it is on his clothes. Nevertheless, if he ignores the circumstances, he feels kind of relieved to meet his old friend now. Perhaps it would be better if Dwalin came along with him.

“It’s Bilbo. I—we don’t know if he’ll make it,” the King deadpans, not looking Dwalin in the eye.

Dwalin opens his mouth to say something, looking rather affected by the news. But before he can actually say something, Thorin speaks up, “Walk with me.”

The warrior looks slightly confused, but he follows his King through the gates of Dale. Thorin stops for a second to pick up some snow. He scrubs his hands together, using the snow to clean them of blood. Then he shakes the melted snow off, with short flicks of his wrists, reddened droplets falling at his feet. His hands aren’t thoroughly clean, but it will suffice, for now.

“Have you seen Fíli and Kíli? Do you know if they’re hurt?” Thorin inquires, as they resume their walk at a faster pace than before, heading towards the town’s market.

“Fíli has a rather nasty gash on his back, but nothin’ too serious. Kíli mangled his right wrist, though. Broken in three places or so, I’ve heard.”

Thorin’s head shoots up at this. “His _right_ wrist?”

Dwalin senses his worry and is quick to reassure him. “Aye, but he’ll pull through. That redheaded lass from Mirkwood was takin’ care of it last time I saw ‘em. Both the Princes were taken to Erebor some time ago. Didn’t ye see ‘em?”

Thorin shakes his head. His lips form a thin line and there is a harsh cast to his features. He’s thankful to hear that his nephews didn’t sustain greater injuries, but he won’t let go of his worry until he sees that they’re alive and well for himself.

“So, how exactly did, uh, _that_ happen?” Dwalin points awkwardly with his forefinger to the heavy amount of blood on Thorin’s clothes.

“The idiot Halfling threw himself between Azog and I. He’s lucky he didn’t die right then and there,” Thorin grunts out between his teeth, feeling strangely angry all of a sudden. Then, he remembers how it really went. He stops dead in his tracks to look at his friend, realizing the full extent of Bilbo’s actions.

 “He saved my life, Dwalin. And now he’s dying.”

Dwalin nods understandingly and puts two and two together. He clasps Thorin’s shoulder tightly, in a comforting grasp.

“And are ye going to do something ‘bout it?” the Dwarf asks slowly, on an implying tone, deducing the purpose of the King’s walk to Dale.

Thorin frowns, then straightens his back. “Yes,” he replies, his voice expressing determination. “But you’re not going to like it,” he adds, almost hesitantly.

What Thorin is about to do puts aside any kind of pride and dignity the King has left. He’s willing to ignore everything he and his people learned and believed in during their 171 years of exile, for Bilbo’s sake. He will try to do so, just for now, at least.

Dwalin chooses to ignore Thorin’s last statement. “Lead the way.”

The two of them navigate swiftly through the maze of tents set up in Dale. Their path leads to the largest tent of them all, right in the centre of the marketplace. A tall Elf, clad in golden armour, guards its entrance and looks down at them questioningly when they stop in front of it.

Dwalin steps forward and announces their presence and purpose rather loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the market. “Tell your King that Thorin II Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, requests an urgent audience. It is a matter of life and death.”

 

~*~

 

Óin is inspecting the wound on Fíli’s back. The blond Dwarf is sitting backwards on a chair, his uncovered chest leaning on the backrest, in one of the rooms in the Royal Quarters. The deep scratch crosses the Prince’s back from his right shoulder blade to his left hip. Fíli winces every time the older Dwarf presses a washcloth to it in order to clean it, but no one sees it, as his head is lowered and his hair falls over the sides of his face. However, he raises his head from time to time to look at his brother.

Kíli is nearby, lying soundly asleep in the bed. Tauriel is tending to his right wrist. The youngest member of the Company was sedated with an Elven mixture of herbs and now Tauriel is carefully putting back the bones into place with skill and tenderness unknown to the Dwarf medics. As Óin sees it, she probably is putting her Elven magic, or whatever they call it, at work too.

The other members of the Company are mostly unharmed, apart from Glóin, who busted something in his knee and is receiving treatment in the Infirmary together with Dori, who bruised his ribs. But they’ll be up and about soon, as neither of their injuries are life-threatening.

Bifur is also in the Infirmary, getting his head checked, as well as his reflexes, reactions, and speech. The blade of the axe embedded in his skull was removed by pure accident during the battle and the Dwarf, who is seemingly all right and unscathed now, can talk in Westron again, not just in Khuzdul and Iglishmêk.

But the worst out of them all is Bilbo.

It’s only the five of them in the Royal Quarters. Fíli, Kíli, Tauriel, Óin and the Hobbit. Bilbo is currently unconscious in the adjoining room. Óin cleaned his wound some time ago, all while praying it wouldn’t get infected, then he stitched it up and applied some balm on it that will help with the healing process.

Miraculously, the puncture wound missed the important organs, but it still managed to cause great blood loss and ruptures. It presented itself as a difficult challenge to the medic. He spent quite some time cleaning the wound and making sure it was stitched properly, while muttering under his breath that he didn’t train to be a surgeon and cursing Bilbo’s lack of preservation instinct.

He also had to tend to other gashes on Bilbo’s arms and legs, where the mithril shirt couldn’t protect his skin. Neither of the lacerations show any sign of infection, which seems promising for now. The old physician doesn’t look too optimistic, though. He told Thorin not to be too hopeful. Hobbits aren’t built to sustain this kind of damage, and Thorin is aware of that.

Then, the healer assigned another Dwarf to look out for Bilbo and instructed him to report back if there are any changes, as Óin is now occupied with Fíli and Kíli.

The brothers arrived shortly after Óin finished with Bilbo. The other Dwarves in the camp said Óin would be in Erebor, so they came after him. Fíli’s back was bleeding severely and Kíli was in great pain because of his wrist, the adrenaline and the numbness having worn off. The wrist was severely bruised, swollen abnormally and it certainly didn’t _look_ right. Tauriel was right behind them and she told Óin she could handle Kíli’s wrist by herself, if the healer let her. So Óin left Kíli to her more than capable hands, while he dealt with the awful wound on Fíli’s back.

It’s good that Thorin had already left by the time they arrived. It’s better that the King wasn’t there to see his nephews at their worst. It’s enough that Thorin blames himself for what happened up on Ravenhill with Bilbo. That is why he couldn’t just sit by and watch Bilbo possibly struggling to escape death. It was under his watch that Bilbo got hurt. The Hobbit was trying to fight _his_ battle. Bilbo saved his life, and if he didn’t make it through, Thorin wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

Of course, he stood by Bilbo’s side the entire time. He brought a semi-unconscious Bilbo to the camp in Dale, to one of the healers’ tents. The Hobbit also started to cough up blood, as if the open wound didn’t bleed enough already. Thorin looked shaken and kept asking if Bilbo was going to make it.

Óin said nothing and proceeded to stop the bleeding. Thorin’s clothes were drenched in Bilbo’s blood, and so were his trembling hands. Even his face was smeared with red. _‘How can so much blood come out from such a small person?’_ Thorin wondered, staring at his bloody hands, not quite comprehending what he was seeing.

He watched helplessly as Óin bandaged the wound, not before tying a tourniquet tightly above it to stop the bleeding preventively. Together, they decided to move Bilbo into Erebor, so Óin could operate in a warmer and cleaner space, away from the harsh elements. Even though Óin could’ve easily saved Bilbo in that tent, they decided to make the move, as not to expose the Hobbit to the cold and possible infections.

Yes, it was risky, but Óin thought it would be the lesser of the two evils. Many other patients were transported to Erebor at the same time because of this, but Thorin was the one who carried Bilbo, refusing to put him down on a stretcher and let other Dwarves—Dwarves he didn’t know— take Bilbo away. He simply couldn’t trust anyone else with the Hobbit.

His feet took him to the Royal Quarters, the place that made him feel safe when he was young, instead of the Infirmary. He didn’t even have to hesitate or to stop to remember the way. Luckily, the rooms were unaffected by Smaug’s wrath.

The King took Bilbo in one of the chambers and laid him on the bed with a great amount of prudence, as if the Hobbit was the most fragile thing in the world. Óin didn’t comment on his choice of rooms and he followed suit with another medic at his heels, both of them carrying the supplies needed for the upcoming intervention.

Thorin doesn’t remember much after that. Everything is blurred together. He knows he stood on his knees by the bed for Mahal knows how much time. He remembers that he held Bilbo’s hand tightly. He remembers the blood, the impossibly large amount of blood. He tried not to look. Instead he looked at the Hobbit’s face and blamed himself for this situation.

All colour had drained from Bilbo’s skin and he was as cold as ice. Óin said something about his surgeon skills not being enough and that was when Thorin stood up abruptly, a bright idea casting away the fears inside his head, giving him hope. He let go of Bilbo’s hand reluctantly and promised to be back as quickly as he can. He knew Bilbo needed a miracle, and he also knew exactly how to make one happen.

 

~*~

 

Gandalf takes off his pointy hat and moves aside the flap of the white Dwarvish tent. He hunches, careful not to take down the feeble construction as he walks in. Several cots are placed inside of it, along the solid cloth walls, and there is a bustle of Dwarf healers swarming tirelessly from patient to patient. The Wizard stands awkwardly for a while, leaning onto his staff and still stooping. Dwarf-sized tents certainly can’t accommodate Wizards. Or Men and Elves for that matter. Growing impatient and annoyed by the fact that he isn’t noticed by any of the healers, Gandalf raises his voice above all the clutter and asks, “Where is the Halfling?”

A young Dwarf from the Iron Hills, most likely the apprentice of a physician, stops from tending to an injured Man’s wounds and looks up at the Istar. He has bright blond hair, fairer than Fíli’s, which stands out immediately, as pale-coloured hair is rare among Dwarves. It’s pulled back into a single plait, which was once intricate but now is messy and loose. There is dried blood caked on his modest tunic and on his hands. Weariness can be read on his youthful face, but his light blue eyes express kindness and warmth, despite his obvious tiredness.

Gandalf assumes that the Dwarf can’t be older than 80 or so, therefore barely of age, considering that his beard is merely thick stubble. His voice is pleasantly deep and earnest. “They’ve moved him into Erebor just a few moments ago, Master Gandalf, along with the Princes and a few other members of the Company.”

“Thank you, Master…?”

“Hráim, sir, at your service,” the young Dwarf replies with haste, bowing politely.

Gandalf inclines his head towards the Dwarf in acknowledgement, then adds on a scrupulous tone, “Hmm, yes, Master Hráim. Now, if you could tell me exactly where in the Mountain have they taken my friend—“

“Of course, if you would follow me, _Tharkûn_ ,” Hráim gesticulates towards the flap of the tent, a tint of hospitality in his voice. “I myself have business in the Mountain and I shall show you the way.”

Gandalf follows the Dwarf out of the tent. The Wizard straightens his back, no longer having to hunch, and puts his pointy hat back on. It turns out that Hráim is quite the talkative Dwarf and Gandalf ponders in quiet amusement upon the resilience and passion of the Dwarves as a people, as he listens to him.

All that Hráim talks about during their not so short trek along the impossibly long stone corridors of Erebor is the braveness of the Company and their great deeds in battle. He also seems to know all the shortcuts and halls of the Mountain, even though he has been here for less than a week. Also knowing that he is surely too young to have visited the Mountain or to have lived here before Smaug claimed it, Gandalf can only assume that he has memorised the old maps of Erebor before coming here, maybe he even did so as a child, taught to honour his ancestral home.

Moreover, Hráim reveals to Gandalf that he is indeed a healer’s apprentice, but his teacher died in battle and that Óin took him under his wing in the aftermath. He now supervises the Erebor Infirmary when Óin isn’t able to do that himself. Albeit gained in a regrettable way, the young Dwarf now has quite the position as Óin’s right hand, a position tailored perfectly for his indisputable talents.

Hráim parts ways with him once they reach the Infirmary located in the eastern wing of Erebor. The blond Dwarf gives him directions on how to reach the Quarters where Bilbo was taken, saying that it was a pleasure to finally meet the famous Wizard who helped Thorin and his Company plan their quest. Gandalf thanks him, truly grateful that the Dwarf is more considerate and less xenophobic than his fellow kinsmen.

No longer having to adjust his strides and pace to Hráim’s, Gandalf now goes up three steps at a time on the staircases and treads the halls of Erebor much faster than before. His wooden staff hammers impatiently on the stone, being the only sound besides the rustle of his grey robes that can be heard on the corridors. He only stops when he reaches his destination.

Gandalf pushes back the massive wooden doors loudly on purpose. He only finds an empty hall, on the side of which only one door, out of a dozen, is ajar.

 ‘Undoubtedly, only Gandalf can be the one making such a dramatic entrance,’ Óin thinks as he stands up tiredly and cleans his hands with an already bloody rag, dipping it in a bucket of water first. He allows himself to yawn and he finds the time to look out the window, finding out with surprise that the sun is starting to rise. It has been a long night.

Heavy footsteps can be heard, announcing the approach of the Wizard. The quiet rustle in the room is interrupted by another powerful swing of the doors, this time the ones to their room. Fíli flinches and raises up his head, and even Tauriel is shifted out of her focus on Kíli’s wrist.

Óin, however, looks unimpressed and for once, he doesn’t need to raise the crumpled trumpet he uses as a hearing aid to make out what the Wizard is about to say. The room darkens visibly and a cloud-looking shadow slowly appears above Gandalf.

The Wizard raises his voice for the second time that day; his words are dripping with contained, but visible anger, “ _Where is my burglar?_ ”

Óin is still unimpressed. He finishes cleaning his hands and drops aside the rag.

“Good morning to you too, Master Gandalf,” he addresses the Istar on an unaffected tone. The physician has seen enough today, he’s tired and he certainly isn’t in the mood to deal with an angry Wizard. “Bilbo is right this way,” he points to the adjacent room. “I even patched him up for you. And let me tell you that it wasn’t too pretty. I trust you’ll find your way, yes? I see that you are rather good at opening doors. You’ll have to excuse me for not accompanying you; I have to mend our Prince’s back here. Duty calls.”

The dark cloud above Gandalf dissipates. The Grey Wizard leans on his staff and looks down at the Dwarf, squinting his eyes. Fíli lets out a quiet snort, undoubtedly finding the situation amusing, despite his tiredness and pain. There also is a tiny hint of smile on Tauriel’s pretty face, but she masks it right away and reverts her attention back to Kíli.

“We’ll talk later, Master Óin,” Gandalf declares after looking at the brothers and at the Elf. He still keeps up the imposing demeanour, although it has diminished a bit.

Óin merely nods, raising his eyebrows, and watches the Wizard enter the room where Bilbo is, robes billowing behind him. It’s quiet for a bit and Óin has time to finish bandaging Fíli’s wound. He ushers the young Dwarf up and puts him to bed, ordering him to rest, but only on his stomach.

The physician doesn’t even get the chance to threaten Fíli with stitches and extended hours of bedrest if he doesn’t take care with the injury, because they can hear Gandalf loudly questioning the Dwarf who is looking after Bilbo next door. The guard’s feeble answers regarding the Hobbit’s wounds don’t seem to satisfy the Wizard.

“What do you mean, ‘ _Thorin Oakenshield was there when it happened’_? Where is Thorin now?” Gandalf’s voice booms and Óin prepares himself for another swing of the door, by closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. This is one of the very few moments in which he comes close to appreciating the fact that he is half-deaf.

“Thorin should be back any moment now,” he says when the door opens again, surprisingly less loudly than he expected.

“But _where_ is he?” Gandalf further demands answers, slamming his staff on the floor.

“That I cannot tell you, Master Gandalf,” Óin articulates sharply, folding his arms against his chest. He looks Gandalf in the eye with a stern expression on his face.

“ _Cannot_ tell me or _will not_ tell me?” The Wizard’s question is accompanied by a disbelieving raise of an eyebrow.

When Óin chooses not to reply to that, Gandalf huffs. “Valar save me from the stubbornness of Dwarves!” He then spins on his heels and walks back into Bilbo’s chamber, while muttering under his breath and shaking his head.

Óin sighs deeply and follows him inside to check on the Hobbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul Dictionary:  
>  _Tharkûn_ = the name given to Gandalf by the Dwarves, meaning either "Grey-man" or "Staff-man"
> 
> Sorry for the many POV changes in this chapter, a lot of stuff happens at the same time in different places. Bilbo dreams, Thorin runs marathons, Óin does cool stuff and Gandalf is being Gandalf. I hope that it wasn’t too confusing. 
> 
> Alsoooo. I did the math, thanks to the LoTR Wikia.  
> Apparently, when Smaug attacked, in TA 2770, Thorin was 24 (very young, a child, basically, in Dwarf terms). I guess that in the movies Thorin is pictured as more than the pre-teen Dwarf he is supposed to be at that time, so I’m going to pretend that he was a young adult too, even though the numbers say otherwise. In the next chapters, there will be more details about Thorin’s life in Erebor before the attack, so keep this in mind.
> 
> Seeing that he is 195 during the Quest for Erebor (TA 2941), it means that he spends 171 years in exile, despising the Elves with a burning fervour. This was referred to in this chapter, so there’s the fact it was based on. 
> 
> Also, wow, he was 53 when the Battle of Azanulbizar took place in TA 2799. Pretty young, I’d say, given that the coming of age of Dwarves is at about 80 and the common Dwarf lives up to 250 years. Compared to Fíli and Kíli, who are 83 and 77 respectively and are considered to be underage, according to Dwarf-reckoning, that is.
> 
> Whew, those are a lot of numbers. Sorry if it’s confusing, I hate writing without knowing for certain some canon facts.  
> Finally, yes, the new OC, Hráim is pretty darn young, too. He’ll make a few more short appearances, but his main purpose was to show that:  
> 1) not all Dwarves are xenophobic, stubborn little bastards  
> 2) Dwarves are pretty dedicated to Erebor and their culture  
> So yeah, he’s cool.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! Please stick around for the next update and don’t be shy to comment! Thanks for reading!


	4. A Fair Bargain

The Elf guarding Thranduil’s tent doesn’t even blink at Dwalin’s words. He merely nods and enters the tent without casting a second glance at the two Dwarves, leaving them alone in the marketplace.

Thorin thinks he hears Dwalin mutter something not entirely nice in Khuzdul, addressed to the Elf, but he pays no mind to that. His worry for Bilbo and his nephews is overwhelming and he finds himself pacing in front of the tent, in spite of his throbbing thigh.

Dwalin squints at his uncommon display of nervousness. He folds his arms against his chest and raises an eyebrow when Thorin stops and notices his stare. The King reduces his pacing to a mere twitchy tap of his unhurt leg. He then runs his eyes over his friend, looking for signs of injury. It’s his turn to squint.

In Dwalin’s hair, there is a new, tiny braid, hidden behind the Dwarf’s beard. The bead at its end, however, glints beautifully in the red sunlight of the dawn. It’s made of malachite, a stone Dwalin has always been fond of, and there are intricate patterns engraved on its surface, alongside Khuzdul runes.

“Is that—?” Thorin asks, eyes fixing the bead.

Dwalin’s face starts reddening almost instantly and he nods slowly. “Ori asked, after the battle. He’s my One and I couldn’t say no, not after everythin’ that happened…“

Thorin just clasps his friend’s shoulders and head-butts him, voicing his congratulations. He’s happy to see one good outcome of the battle and he momentarily forgets about his worries. A genuine smile lights Dwalin’s face and Thorin can’t help but mirror it.

He knows all about Ori’s infatuation with Dwalin. In fact, the whole Company kind of knows, Dwalin included. It started at the very beginning of the journey, everyone supposed, and intensified along the way. The young Dwarf has always been too shy to say anything, but that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t been obvious. The whole Company received gifts from Ori, such as knitted mittens or charcoal portraits, as symbols of his friendly regard towards all of them, but all of Dwalin’s gifts stood out by far in quality and design. Ori’s constant stammering and blushing in the warrior’s presence didn’t help much either in hiding the petite Dwarf’s feelings. And, since Dwalin hasn’t ever shown any signs of reciprocation, just gruff replies and indifference, Ori slowly gave up trying to get Dwalin’s attention sometime during the journey.

What Ori didn’t know though was that Dwalin did feel a pull similar to his, but the older Dwarf chose to subdue it. Dwalin told Thorin and Balin about it one night in Mirkwood. He believed that Ori was too young and surely his attraction to an old, not-so-handsome warrior was just a meaningless crush, which would pass and fade as swiftly as it has blossomed. And even if Ori’s affections happened to be true (which Dwalin didn’t truly think they were) he deemed that the young scholar had a bright life ahead and didn’t need to be held back by a relationship of this kind. It would probably be frowned upon because of their clashing backgrounds and age difference anyway. They were just too _different_. Not to even mention the war Dori would start if he heard of such a thing.

So, Dwalin chose not to act upon anything as well, despite the words of encouragement he received from both his brother and Thorin. At that time, little did Ori and Dwalin know that they were each other’s One and that this pull they felt towards each other was a sign of the forging bond between them, which is meant to last forever.

“I’ve to make one too,” Dwalin says, twisting the bead between his thumb and forefinger with fondness. Then he lets out a short, nervous laugh. “When did he even have the time to make it?” he adds, shaking his head, but with a wide smile on his face.

Thorin is just about to ask if Dori knows, and if he does, then how come Dwalin is still alive, when the Elf guard exits Thranduil’s tent. He had also intended to praise the beautiful craftsmanship of the bead and remark on how fitting it is, as it is done when one is offering congratulations upon the beginning of a courtship. The Elf, however, holds no regard for their ongoing conversation and gestures Thorin to enter right away.

“The Elvenking accepts your request for an audience. He will see you now,” he speaks in an emotionless voice, setting the spear he was holding in the ground and grasping forcefully.

Any hint of cheerfulness disappears from the two Dwarves’ faces, their conversation forgotten. Dwalin glares menacingly at the guard when he sees his steady hold on the spear, interpreting it as a threat, but the Elf looks straight ahead, as if the Dwarves aren’t even there.

Only Thorin enters the tent, without further ado, but not before being asked to surrender his weapons. Having to relinquish all but a few daggers hidden away in the folds of his coat –of course, Fíli got that from his Uncle– and the long, triangular-bladed battle axe he usually wears on his back reminds him that he has yet to retrieve Orcrist from Azog’s corpse.

The tent is surprisingly large on the inside, if one were to compare the outside of it with the inside. Torches hang from the posts that sustain the tent, shedding light inside, albeit unnecessary as the sunrise spreads out more and more light each minute through the rolled back flaps. There is a luxurious cot on one side of the tent, lavish pillows and covers on it. A tall, wooden chair resembling a throne is placed in the centre, with a table in front of it. Thranduil sits in it, no longer wearing his armour. He is looking over some papers that Thorin assumes can only be reports of the battle. He doesn’t even raise his head to look at the Dwarf.

“If you are here to reclaim your precious Arkenstone, you may as well turn around and leave. I do not have it. Bard is its keeper and he will not return it to you unless you give him what was promised. Of course, I will be present when the negotiations will take place. I too have something of mine among the treasures in the Mountain and I would very much like it back.”

Thorin balls his hands into tight fists at his sides at the mention of the Arkenstone. The stone is the last thing on his mind right now. Honestly, he couldn’t care less about it. Despite the obvious arrogance and bigotry in the Elvenking’s voice when he was addressed as if he was being dismissed, Thorin is glad to find out where Thranduil’s interests lie. He reaches inside the breast pocket of his coat, reassured to find that its content is still there.

“I am not here for the Arkenstone.” Thorin’s voice is surprisingly even. He crosses his wrists behind his back and adopts a straight posture, pulling his shoulders back.

Hearing this, Thranduil finally puts away the reports to observe the Dwarf, a look of mild interest on his face. He gestures with his hand briefly, silently telling Thorin to continue, then he reaches out to pick up the glass of wine on the table in front of him. He sips from it, watching Thorin above the rim of the glass.

Thorin tries not to give away humbleness or helplessness. “I need your help.”

Thranduil looks as if he is close to bursting in laughter. He doesn’t laugh though, but there is an amused, haughty smirk tugging up at the corners of his thin lips. It doesn’t last long and the smirk transforms gradually into an ill sneer, his upper lip curling dangerously. He furrows his eyebrows and raises his chin in blatant anger.

“Haven’t you and your foolish Dwarves benefited enough from the immortal blood I had to spill so that _you_ ,” he spits out, “could have your wretched Mountain back?” Thranduil descends from his throne to tower wantonly over Thorin’s shorter frame. “Haven’t I wasted enough time, effort, and lives for the sake of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Bloody Mountain? How dare you come to me and ask for more, when I gave far too much for you and your people?”

Thorin doesn’t even blink at Thranduil’s vehement speech and approach. He expected that. He prepared himself for that. But the Elf’s rhetorical questions do not reflect the truth though, and that almost makes his blood boil. Almost. Thranduil was ready to wage war against him and Dáin when the Orcs came. The very same blood would have been spilled for an entirely different cause. Thranduil didn’t sacrifice his Elves for Thorin or his people. He only fought in the battle to protect himself and his interests.

‘He’s a heartless liar, and nothing more,’ Thorin thinks calmly.

Keeping eye contact with the Elvenking, he reaches out inside his coat pocket again, this time bringing out its content. He slowly places it on the table and Thranduil’s widened eyes follow the trajectory of his hand with morbid fascination. The necklace his ancestors crafted from beautiful White Gems of Lasgalen, meant to be a gift for the Elvenqueen so long ago, rests on the table, shining eerily.

It is rather curious that both he and Thranduil could be swayed so easily under the influence of their shiny heirlooms. Thorin feels a spasm in his stomach as he recalls his own actions in the name of the Arkenstone and he feels utterly disgusted. But he knows what the necklace means to Thranduil and he hopes that these advances will provoke the reaction he intends to exploit, especially after the way in which the events unfolded during the battle.

He speaks out with a little too much confidence. “The other gems are in Erebor and I am willing to bestow them upon you, upfront, without any further negotiations needed, after you agree to my request and offer me your help,” he states, then mimics Thranduil’s conceited tone and phrasing used when he walked into the tent. “Of course, you will still be able to barter for the treasures of my people, along with the Dragonslayer, if you wish for additional gold and gems.”

He is giving a lot away and it pains him to do so. Not only is he sacrificing his principles, but also the precious work of his people, handing it over to an Elf who will never understand or appreciate the effort, the blood and the sweat of his people that went into creating such a marvellous treasure. Anyone else besides a Dwarf would just simply call it _gold_. Thorin forgot this too though, when he let the dragon sickness take over his mind.

But that is the purpose of the treasure. To be admired and cherished for its significance, not to be fought over as if it was just some mere chunks of precious metals and pretty stones. That is why he has always been so reluctant in giving away the heirlooms of his home and family. But the thought of Bilbo dying because he was too much of a coward to seek help makes his skin crawl, so he puts his pride aside and does what needs to be done.

Thorin originally thought that Thranduil was going to make a scene by arguing that the gems were always his and that Thorin had no right to ‘bestow’ them as he wished. He thought he was going to be called manipulative, treacherous, naïve or even lowly and shameless. None of that happens.

Thranduil is still staring at the necklace, a hand hovering over it, but not daring to touch it. His voice is empty and void of emotion.

“What do you want?”

Thorin shakes off the surprise at the Elvenking’s question. He didn’t expect such a short battle to, at least, be heard out. He takes a deep breath. His voice comes out as steady as he hoped.

“The Halfling in my Company, Bilbo Baggins, is greatly wounded.” He closes his eyes for a second, fully grasping the gravity of the situation. “My healers predict that he will not survive the day. I am… fond of the Halfling and I would deeply regret if he didn’t make it.”

Thorin briefly remembers the night he spent in Bag End and how he told Gandalf that he ‘cannot guarantee Bilbo’s safety, nor will he be responsible for his fate’. Oh, how wrong he was back then.

“What I ask of you,” he continues, swallowing what's left of his pride, “is that you send an Elf healer to Erebor. Your healers are more skilled and their ways are unknown to mine. Maybe there is something they can do that my own healers couldn’t.” Seeing that there is no reaction from the Elf, the next word is leaves his tongue with difficulty. He struggles to pronounce it clearly, even though he rasps it lowly, “Please.”

Thranduil finally looks away from the necklace. There is no hint of mockery or smugness on his face, just a faint twinkle of curiosity, mixed with confusion, in his eyes.

“Is this not the same Halfling who stole your beloved Arkenstone and illicitly handed it over to me? The same Halfling that you almost choked to death and threw down from your Mountain?”

Thorin refuses to wince at the Elvenking’s words. He just nods once, slowly, setting his jaw. He doesn’t reply. At least the Elf is taking him seriously and isn’t laughing in his face. Maybe he has seen enough bloodshed to pity Thorin and maybe consider this bargain.

In the wake of Thorin’s quietness, Thranduil raises his eyebrows and smiles, almost cruelly. His following remarks are dripping with fake astonishment and sarcasm.

“My, my, I never expected the illustrious loyalty of the Dwarves to be so… malleable. And I certainly did not expect that one day Thorin Oakenshield would be seeking me out to _beg_ for my help. How _entertaining_.”

The Dwarf King grits his teeth again and clenches his hands into tight fists behind his back. He bites back words he knows he will regret and keeps a straight face, choosing not to let his rage show.

Thranduil gently picks up the necklace from where Thorin placed it. He turns around and holds it up with his long and pale fingers so it reflects dazzlingly the light of the sunrise.

“But I do admire the Halfling,” Thranduil carries on, with more honesty this time. “Fierce and loyal little thing. Adorable too, one could say. His passing would be a terrible loss, indeed. Seeing that it brought you here, I must say that your devotion to this Halfling is admirable as well, despite the fact that you almost broke him. Twice, if I’m not wrong. He got hurt while protecting you, did he not?” the Elvenking pauses, waiting for Thorin’s reply, knowing that it wouldn’t come.

As the prideful Elf expected, Thorin doesn’t utter a single word, doesn’t make the slightest gesture. Thranduil huffs dramatically, sounding almost disappointed.

“Guessed as much.”

Unexpectedly, the Elf tears away his gaze from the necklace and pivots on his heels to face Thorin again, who stands unbelievably still and expressionless. He pockets the necklace away in the extravagant robes he’s wearing, then pats the pocket twice, audibly, showing a miniscule bit of satisfaction. Thorin feels that there is a conclusion approaching to Thranduil’s unpleasant monologue and his heart hammers in his chest in anticipation.

“Very well. I will help you.”

 

~*~

 

Thorin didn’t expect Thranduil to come to Erebor in person, with two Elven healers following closely. He hardly expected a single, lowly healer. Not that he wouldn’t have been thankful for that. Exceeding his expectations by far, Thranduil assures him that the healers are the best in Mirkwood and that he will assist them as well. Again, Thorin didn’t have the faintest clue that Thranduil also possessed healing skills. The Elvenking even arranges for them to ride steeds back to Erebor (ponies, for Dwalin and Thorin, and horses for the Elves), so they wouldn’t waste time.

On the way back to the Mountain, Thorin chews incessantly on the inside of his cheek and guides his pony to gallop as fast as possible. They pass by the battlefield again. In the meantime, the snowfall has stopped and numerous fires have been lit to burn the unclaimed bodies. The smell is repulsive and Thorin feels bile rising in his throat. Even Thranduil wrinkles his nose at the stench.

They make a run for the Royal Quarters when they finally reach Erebor, after a ride that seemed far too lengthy to Thorin. The Dwarf King opens the doors hurriedly and walks in first, only to be greeted with Gandalf’s booming voice.

“ _Thorin Oakenshield, where on earth have you been?_ ”

Instead of answering to Gandalf’s inquiry, Thorin signals the three Elves who have been following him closely to enter the room. The Elves head straight towards Bilbo’s bed, without paying attention to the other people in the room. Dwalin comes in last and Ori instantly stands up from where he was sitting and takes his place at the warrior’s side in a heartbeat, as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

Thorin is glad to also see Balin, Ori and Bofur in the room, apart from Óin and Gandalf, even though a dozen questions are fired his way. The look on Óin’s face, however, tells him that there is nothing to be glad for, at least not yet. The Dwarf physician promptly makes the connection between Thorin and the Elves and starts sharing his knowledge of Bilbo’s wound, offering his assistance.

“What is the meaning of this?” Gandalf continues to demand answers, albeit this time perplexed by Thranduil’s presence.

Thorin simply tells him that he went to Dale to get help, while shedding his heavy coat and hurrying to Bilbo’s bedside. Gandalf says something, but Thorin doesn’t hear him. The Wizard leaves the room soon enough, not before exchanging a few quick words with Thranduil. Thorin tries not to eavesdrop, as he is uninterested in what the two of them have to say, but he hears his name being mentioned, along with Bilbo’s.

Orcrist is placed on a table in the corner of the room, still stained with black blood, right next to Sting and a shiny, simple-looking gold ring. Thorin notices them and guesses that one of the Dwarves brought them back from Ravenhill.

The King watches Thranduil unbandage Bilbo’s abdomen, but realises he cannot sit by and look at that awful wound again, so he hesitantly steps aside, leaving more room for the healers. One of the Elves is attentive enough to turn around and tell him that they will do everything they can and that he needn’t worry. Thorin nods absentmindedly.

The room is too crammed for the Elves to work and Thorin gestures for all the other Dwarves except from Óin to get out. Once they exit the room and Thorin closes the door slowly for once, Balin approaches him.

“Thorin, what have you done? How come Thranduil is here?” he asks on a worried tone.

“Balin, I need you to go down in the Treasury and gather up all the remaining White Gems, then bring them up here,” Thorin commands firmly, avoiding having to answer.

For a brief second, Balin’s mouth forms an ‘o’, but he quickly masks his surprise. He doesn’t argue with Thorin’s order; he furrows his white brows in a solemn manner and complies, nodding curtly.

Bofur is gaping openly. He watches Balin leave the hallway and head downstairs to the Treasury, shock etched upon his face, then moves his eyes to Dwalin, as if he is expecting some kind of protest from the other Dwarf. Dwalin is known in the Company for challenging Thorin’s decisions when the time is right. This time though, Dwalin just stands by, lips forming a tight line. Even Ori looks up at him in confusion. Seeing that no one is saying anything, Bofur takes the initiative himself.

“Did you promise that spineless tree-shagger you’d give him the Gems? Thorin! In Durin’s name _,_ why? Those belong in the Mountain, they’re part of your Grandfather’s treasure! How can you give them up so easily, and to that _scum_ , of all people?”

“And what would you have had me do? Let Bilbo die?” Thorin snarls, angered by Bofur’s reaction.

Bofur seems to calm down at the mention of Bilbo’s name, realizing he’s just put a bunch of pretty stones above his friend’s life.

Thorin lowers his voice, reminding himself that Thranduil is next door and they should keep quiet so they don’t interfere with the healing procedures. “That scum is currently saving our burglar’s life because I offered him the Gems. Do you think it was easy? It’s my fault that Bilbo got hurt and I bargained for his sake. For all I care, Thranduil can have all the gold in this Mountain if he so pleases, as long as Bilbo will be fine. Nothing else matters now.”

Bofur mutters a ‘sorry’, which Thorin dismisses with a slow wave of his hand. The Dwarf King sighs, leaning against the stone wall and closing his eyes tiredly. Bofur tilts his head to one side and frowns, as if he doesn’t understand something. He stares at Thorin in confusion. Their King’s reaction makes him wonder what exactly happened up on Ravenhill, but he doesn’t have the courage to ask.

“Besides, Thranduil wouldn’t have left without the Gems anyway, right? That’s the reason why he’s come here… Um, also, it’s better this way. Bilbo gets help as well and we avoid further complicated negotiations too…” Ori adds shyly, meaning to support Thorin in his decision.

Dwalin looks down at him proudly, admiring his One’s sound logic. Ori beams at him and grasps one of Dwalin’s large hands in his own smaller one, entwining their fingers tenderly. That finally diverts Bofur’s attention from Thorin and he tilts his head again, widening his eyes at the tiny display of affection. The couple seemed undisturbed by their friend’s impolite stare.

“Wait, when did you two…?”

“Long story,” Ori replies dreamily, without tearing his eyes away from Dwalin.

Bofur sighs and throws his hands up in defeat, shaking his head. He slides down the wall, his coat rustling against the stone, until he sits down on the floor with his knees to his chest and his back against the wall. He places his head in his hands and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes tiredly.

Shortly after that, Thorin asks the other members of his Company where his nephews are. Ori points him to the adjacent room and Thorin walks in, not before instructing them to inform him if there is any change regarding Bilbo.

A few torches have been lit across the hall, but their flame isn’t strong enough to engulf the whole hallway in light. A silence settles between the three Dwarves who remained in the corridor, and they sit motionless in the semi-darkness in front of Bilbo’s room dreading the news that could come out that door.

Ori and Dwalin slowly distance themselves from each other, realising how inappropriate it is to rejoice in their newfound soul-bond at this time, especially in front of others. Unfortunately, in Dwarven culture, public displays of affection are frowned upon, at least before an official engagement which announces the end of the courtship. That discourages them too. Besides, they aren’t even properly courting yet. Dwalin has to gift Ori with a bead and braid it in the younger Dwarf’s hair too, before the courtship is properly started.

The silence in the corridor is broken when several steps are heard from down below, on the staircase. The sounds increase in intensity and the Dwarves involuntarily look up when the voices of their friends can be distinguished from the echoes.

Soon enough, Nori, Bifur and Bombur join them in the hallway, eager to find out what happened. Ori is wise enough to go wondering in the other quarters in the Wing, bringing out enough chairs for everyone to sit on. They align them together and start sharing their stories from the battle. Not long after that, Balin returns with the rest of the Lasgalen Gems, arranged neatly in a pretty chest.

And so, the rest of the unharmed members of the Company are gathered in the hall of the Royal Quarters Wing, to wait until they will find out if their dear burglar pulled through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! I was caught up in a project and I was away for two weeks, and now I'm nursing a nasty cold :( But I'm back, and I can't wait to resume my work on this fic!
> 
>  **About the necklace** : If you didn’t know, Thranduil designed the necklace for his wife and since Elves do not have the same affinity for working with precious metals and gems, he handed the materials (the raw gold, silver and the famous White Gems of Lasgalen) to King Thrór. The Dwarves fashioned a wondrous work of art, but there was a dispute over payment for the work carried out and King Thrór refused to part with the necklace. Another theory says that the necklace was so beautiful that he couldn’t let go of it, no matter how much Thranduil offered.  
> Anyway, whatever the true reason was, it created a rift between the Elves and the Dwarves, and Thranduil’s obsession with the necklace distorted his good judgment and led to his refusal to ally himself with the Dwarves and help them when they were in need. You know the rest of the story.  
> So, the reason why Thranduil wants the necklace back so badly is because he thinks it’s one of the very few things that tie him to his dead queen. Too bad he fails to see the true legacy of the love he and his wife shared in Legolas. But it all turns out right in the end, eh? Kind of. Thorin is a sneaky bastard to use this as leverage. Anything to save his precious hobbit, heh.


	5. Under His Skin

As soon as Thorin walks into the room his nephews are resting in, a chair is moved hastily, its legs screeching unpleasantly against the stone floor, as if someone is startled by his unannounced entrance and hurries to stand up. He winces at the sharp sound and closes the door behind him slowly.

Thorin is not surprised to see Tauriel at Kíli’s bedside. He inclines his head in her direction in acknowledgement. Tauriel bows and salutes him by addressing him with a solemn, genuine ‘your Majesty’. The Dwarf is somewhat confused by her respectful greeting, but seeing that she is here out of pure concern and affection for his nephew, he doesn’t doubt its sincerity.

Fíli is lying face down on one of the two beds in the chamber, sleeping, most likely. Thorin can’t see his face, but he’s relieved to hear him breathing. Kíli is sleeping as well in the other bed, his right wrist bandaged heavily in a steady cast. Despite their injuries, neither of them seem to be in pain at the moment, and Thorin is pleased to see that they’re both deep into a healing sleep.

He is tired as well and it hurts his pride to admit that he needs some rest, too. Finally seeing his nephews safe made him relax, allowing his tiredness to settle in. The pain in his left thigh is starting to become unbearable. He faintly remembers an arrow piercing his thigh, sometime during the battle. It wasn’t lodged deeply, so he pulled it out immediately, without a second thought. The wound itself wasn’t serious at the time and Thorin himself is a strong, sturdy Dwarf, but carrying Bilbo all the way down to Erebor, then up to the Royal Wing took a toll on Thorin’s upper leg. Probably his trip to Dale and back didn’t help either.

He sighs, knowing that he won’t allow himself respite, not until he finds out for sure if Bilbo is all right or not. But he can indulge in a small moment of quietness and this seems to be the perfect opportunity. So, he drags one of the chairs from the table in the middle of the room and places it between his nephews’ beds. His thigh bothers him in the process, but once he sits down, the pain dulls, even though it still throbs.

It turns out that his moment isn’t as peaceful as he thought it would be. He slowly becomes very aware of the Elf’s presence, as seconds of tensioned silence become minutes. Weirdly enough, her presence doesn’t feel like an intrusion. She was still standing, looking torn between leaving to give Thorin a moment of privacy with his nephews and staying, as if she can’t bear to leave Kíli’s bedside.

He feels like he should say something, to show her that he doesn’t have a problem with her staying. Given the fact that she probably saved Kíli’s life multiple times, back in Laketown, on the battlefield and right here, he should even thank the Elf, but he can’t bring himself to voice his gratitude properly.

“I’ve heard that you helped Óin. Your efforts are appreciated,” he manages, thanking her in his own clumsy way.

Thorin has never been any good with conveying words of apology or gratitude. He finds it difficult and demanding. To him, words like ‘sorry’, ’please’ or ’thank you’ are particularly hard to say out loud, even if he is addressing them to the people he is fond of. And asking —no, _begging_ — Thranduil to help was challenging enough for one day. Directly thanking another Elf today, albeit one who seemed to care for Kíli, might definitely erase the last bit of dignity he was left with after the episode in Thranduil’s tent. He knows he needs to let go of his stupid pride, but today is just not that day.

“You are welcome to stay in Erebor for as long as you want,” he adds, not wanting to sound like he was dismissing her. He doesn’t even dream of telling her to get lost, especially not when she kept his nephew, his heir, alive. Besides, if his presumptions are correct, she has every right to be here. He’s not even surprised to find out that, if that’s the case, he doesn’t mind one bit.

Tauriel looks at him for a second in surprise, then reverts her gaze back to the young Dwarf. A hint of a smile is sketched upon her rosy lips. “Thank you,” she blurts out with sincerity, then reoccupies her seat gracefully.

No more words are exchanged between them and the silence settles once again in the room, a lot less awkward this time. Thorin is grateful for it, and he closes his eyes for a minute, not falling asleep, but simply enjoying the atmosphere of the room.

However, the moment of comfortable stillness is short-lived, as it is disrupted brusquely by Óin, who bursts in the room and narrows his eyes at Thorin, as if he has a bone to pick with him specifically. Thorin stands up instantly, expecting to hear about Bilbo’s condition. He gets a nasty head rush that has him wobbling and his thigh screams in protest.

The Dwarf healer points a finger at him in accusation. “You! What were you thinking? Elves, Thorin? Seriously?!”

Thorin puts up a hand, trying to fit an explanation between Óin’s influx of exclamations and questions, but he gets cut off every time he tries to speak. He glances over at his nephews, hoping they aren’t disturbed from their rest by Óin’s hollering. It is kind of irresponsible, coming from the healer, to make so much noise in the presence of his own patients. But since the Dwarf is half deaf, it’s kind of understandable.

“Well done!” Óin finally stops his lengthy rant and claps his palms together excitedly.

Thorin stares at him in confusion, losing balance again, on account of his injury. Did Óin just say he did well? Did he hear right?

“You just saved Bilbo’s life! The bastards kicked me out once they started their chanting magical thing, but everything seemed promising and it’s all thanks to you, lad.”

The King almost laughs in relief. He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, and it comes out shakily. Óin fixes him with a scrutinizing stare. He scans him suspiciously, head to toes, and he finally notices the blood on Thorin’s pant leg. He frowns, and if Thorin wasn’t terrified of that frown, he’d find the quick shift of Óin’s facial expressions comical.

“What’s that?” the healer asks impatiently, taping his foot against the floor and pointing with a stiff index finger at Thorin’s injury. “Off. Off with your pants,” he barks with authority.

“Oh, my, Óin, I never thought you’d be so _forward_ ,” Thorin attempts to be cocky, with the intention of easing Óin’s worry. A stressed, mad Óin would be the last thing he needs right now.

His cheap attempt at humour is pitiful. The healer sees right through him and rolls his eyes, ushering him to remove the piece of clothing faster. Thorin tries to make his stripping suggestive, allegedly continuing his poor joke. Again, this doesn’t amuse Óin and the physician whacks at the nape of Thorin’s neck with a ragged cloth, not too forcefully, but not playfully either. Finally giving up, Thorin seats himself on top of the table to be examined, feigning coyness through a smirk, even though he kind of fears Óin’s reaction.

“Um, I’d better go…” Tauriel’s slightly uncomfortable voice makes Óin’s head turn in her direction.

“Tauriel, lassie, would you please be as kind as to check on Prince Fíli and change his bandages, perhaps?” he asks with a warm voice, completely different from the one he used earlier when talking to Thorin. “I’d do that myself, but I have to deal with our beloved _King_ here.”

Even though Óin says ‘King’, Thorin hears _‘idiot’_ , loudly and clearly.

Tauriel complies, biting her lips, probably trying to stifle her laughter. While Óin leans in to examine his wound, Thorin watches the Elf out of the corner of his eye as she unrolls and cuts some clean bandages out of a stash on the nightstand with deftness, until she disappears from his line of sight when she crosses the room to tend to Fíli. His full attention is, however, drawn back to the healer once Óin releases a string of colourful swearwords in Khuzdul.

“You oaf. You have a damn arrowhead in your leg and you carried Bilbo from Ravenhill down to Erebor then ran to Dale and back _with it still inside_? How did you even manage to do that? Damn it, Thorin, you’re going to put me in an early grave,” Óin shouts angrily in Thorin’s ear.

Thorin winces at the shrill loudness of Óin’s voice. He’s almost sure that the healer is just being loud on purpose now, his disability out of the equation. 

“Yes, yes, can you get it out now?” Thorin snaps, leaving his petty jest aside now. He just wants to get this over with. The arrowhead isn’t even there entirely. It’s probably just a small piece of it. Óin is just being dramatic. And loud. As always.

“Of course I can get it out,” Óin retorts, huffing as if he was insulted gravely. He takes out a pair of tweezers from his pocket and clicks the metal legs together, while smiling deviously. “The question is, can you take it?”

Before Thorin can reply, Óin is already sticking the tweezers in the gaping hole in his thigh, none too gently.

 

~*~

 

Thorin doesn’t remember falling asleep. He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, in a room he hasn’t seen before, but he guesses he is still in the Royal Wing. There’s no one else inside but him. He notices that he’s wearing just a thin tunic and his underclothing. The beddings had been changed and the dust in the room seemed to have been reduced to a minimum. Pulling aside the two blankets covering him, he raises his upper body up, supporting himself on his elbows.

Any trace of blood was cleaned from his skin and his thigh wound was bandaged tightly. He pokes at it curiously. The pain is bearable, numb and not sharp as he expected it. It will do. His other scrapes and scratches had been tended to as well.

There is a tall glass of water on the nightstand and he reaches out for it, suddenly aware of his dry throat. He drinks the cool liquid greedily, then he swings his legs over the side of the bed and looks out the window. Instead of bright sunlight, he is met with the dim light of the dusk. Did he sleep the entire day? Why didn’t anyone wake him up?

On the edge of the bed, there is a crutch and a pair of trousers. He puts the trousers on slowly, not touching his bandages, and ignores the crutch completely. He doesn’t need it, or so he thinks. Standing up is easy enough without the crutch, and soon enough he is approaching the door with insecure steps.

There is no one in the hallway. He takes a wild guess and opens the door to the room across his. His nephews are still there, sleeping peacefully. Tauriel, however, isn’t by Kíli’s bedside anymore. He slowly closes the door behind him, and limps further down the hall, where he knows that Bilbo’s room is.

That room is deserted too, not a soul besides Bilbo in sight. Seeing the Hobbit so still in his bed makes something go off inside him, a creeping panic settling in his stomach, but once he hears Bilbo’s loud breathing, he exhales a relieved sigh and he feels his heart hammer in his chest.

He’s still awfully pale, Thorin notices, but there is a hint of pink on his cheeks. A cut right under his right cheekbone stands out and Thorin finds himself hoping that it won’t scar. The Hobbit’s bronze curls are fanned across the pillow, no longer matted with blood and dirt. Dry lips breathe out warm puffs of air, long eyelashes rest against light-coloured skin. His fingers grasp softly at the blanket covering him up to his chest. He looks so _alive_ , opposed to what he looked like when Thorin saw him last.

Thorin’s leg starts hurting more than it should and he makes a great effort to cross the room. Then, he collapses gracelessly in the armchair by Bilbo’s bed and watches the Hobbit’s chest rise and fall with each breath, in a constant rhythm.

He’ll have to apologise. For a lot of things. For his behaviour, for the episode on the battlements, for failing to protect him in battle. The bruises are visible on Bilbo’s neck, dark shadows of black and blue in the shape of two hands, where Thorin strangled him two days ago. Thorin looks at his hands and hates himself more than ever.

Bilbo would be well within his rights to deny him forgiveness. He’ll probably bolt out the door and out of Erebor the second he is decently recovered. He’ll probably go back home, to his beloved books and armchair and garden, eager to forget about Erebor and the Dwarves he leaves behind, forever wondering why on Arda he chose to come along on this journey that scarred him so deeply.

Thorin sighs. He knows why he is here, why he feels such a strong need to apologise, to fix everything he’s ruined. He’s been trying to deny it for far too long. He’s known it since he fiercely hugged Bilbo on the Carrock, if not even before that, when he first stepped foot inside Bag End, his eyes met Bilbo’s, and he felt like lightning struck him right in that very second, electricity trickling through his body, making his skin tingle with warmth. He didn’t know back then. He ignored the tug, the light pull he felt. He mistook it for some instinct to protect the weakest member of his Company. Why would he think that it’s anything else besides that?

If he ever felt like he wanted to spend more time with Bilbo, he told himself that it was because he is so… exotic. A Hobbit from the Shire. Dwarves don’t meet Hobbits often, right? It was only logical that he wanted to get to know him better, especially when he and his Company were travelling together with him. Well, Thorin was kind of rude at first, and doubtful of Bilbo’s character, but Bilbo managed to prove him wrong, and soon enough he earned Thorin’s trust, respect and appreciation as well.

If he ever felt like he had to protect Bilbo, touch him or be near him, he told himself that it was because they were slowly becoming friends. He hadn’t made a new friend in decades. He doesn’t even have many friends. Allies, sure, but few of them. Enemies, even more so. But _true_ friends? People who know him for who he really is and care about him, besides his own family? He can count them on one hand. And being friends with Bilbo made him appreciate life more, made him thankful that he was alive. Bilbo has taught him so many things and reminded him of others, long forgotten.

He didn’t hold back at times. Even though he might not show it, Thorin is a tactile being. He seeks to touch, to be assured by physical warmth. He reached out without even realising. Fingers brushing against a shoulder, a securing, steadying hand on an elbow. It had been so simple. He thought that those touches helped them define their friendship, but now he understands that they meant much more. They were forging a bond Thorin should have been aware of.

Dwarves are highly emotional creatures, even though their reputation as a stoic and cold race might dictate otherwise. They let themselves be guided by their potent sentiments, by their devotion to their crafts. Their emotions run through them like veins of mithril through stone. So, it makes sense that they only love once, strongly enough to last for more than a simple lifetime. They bond for life, irreversibly, and they’re always monogamous, profoundly faithful and possessive to a fault. A One is the most precious gift Aulë can bestow upon his children. A One is to be cherished, to be loved deeply, to be protected and cared for, to be given all and everything. Thorin knows this. He knows the stories, the lore, the myths. So why didn’t he realise when it happened, when lightning struck him that night in Bag End?

When he was young, he often imagined his One and what they’d be like. He never imagined that they’d be anything but a Dwarf, that he’d be so bitter and oblivious that he wouldn’t even recognise them, that he’d be as cruel and insensitive as to hurt them. He never imagined getting his heart broken by a kind, homely Hobbit from the Shire.

There’s no point in denying it now. His thoughts swarm, recalling every memory and every emotion that led up to this. He never saw it coming. Why didn’t he? Because was obvious, and it feels _so simple_. Him, standing here, musing at the feelings he’s been ignoring like a fool, while _Bilbo_ sleeps peacefully, making a slow recovery after he’s been hurt on Thorin’s watch.

Bilbo, his One.

Bilbo, who got hurt because of Thorin and almost died. (Valiant, loyal, kind Bilbo, with his tiny glowing sword and his bare feet, a shirt of mithril underneath his ridiculous coat, _fought for him_ so fiercely and Thorin almost lost him.)

Bilbo, who was strangled and threatened by him. (Damned be the Treasure Under the Mountain and the curse that lies upon it, because gold was never worth any of this and will never be.)

Bilbo, who saved his life time and time again, and all Thorin did was hurt cruelly him in return. (He’ll never be able to pay the debt he owes Bilbo.)

He doesn’t deserve his One.

His One, whose race probably doesn’t even have Ones. (And even if Hobbits had Ones, who’s to say that Thorin is Bilbo’s?)

His One, who is clueless of Thorin’s feelings. (How can he not be? Even Thorin himself has been clueless just until minutes ago.)

His One, who would probably never want him. (Not after all that Thorin has done.)

He doesn’t deserve his One, no.

It’s simple then. It has always been simple.

But he can’t bring himself to leave just yet. He tries standing up and returning to his room, feeling tired, but he ends up standing by the bed uselessly. His hand hovers, itching to touch, to be comforted by warm skin and soft curls, but he _can’t_. He just can’t. Something inside him breaks at the realisation and he completely gives up. It feels like he is surrendering to something he can’t name, but he resumes his seat by Bilbo’s side faithfully, even though his poor heart aches.

Sometime later, a young, blond-headed Dwarf brings him dinner and Thorin wolfs it down, suddenly aware of the fact that he hasn’t eaten properly in days. While he does so, the other Dwarf changes Bilbo’s bandages. Neither of them even try to strike up a conversation, and Thorin turns his back to the bed, taking a seat at the table in the room and focusing his attention on his dinner. He doesn’t look.

Half an hour after the other Dwarf leaves, Thorin empties the contents of his stomach in the sink in the corner of the room, then he washes his face with rusty water. He falls asleep back in the armchair, many, many minutes later.

When he wakes up after an unpleasant sleep, it’s morning already. During the night, someone had covered him with a blanket and he tosses it aside, standing up. His leg is doing fine, but he feels stiff and unrested. Placing the blame on the armchair, he stretches until he hears his almost all of his joints crack.

There’s nothing left for him to do here. He even avoids looking in the direction of Bilbo’s bed. He crosses the room with hesitant short steps. His hand is on the doorknob and he rests his forehead against the cold wood of the door until he finds the strength to turn around and look at Bilbo one last time.

He curves his lips into a miserable smile. Bilbo will be all right. It doesn’t even matter that he himself might never be all right again, not after everything that’s happened. He finds himself muttering a quiet ‘I’m sorry’ and he doesn’t even know if it’s addressed to Bilbo or to himself.


	6. Two Silver Beads

****Thorin gets a new change of clothes in his room, discarding the tunic and the trousers in favour of something that speaks of his status. He brushes his hair and redoes the braids. The usual routine anchors him, and he welcomes the familiarity, letting himself be distraught.

His beard needs a trim, having grown a bit too long for what it’s supposed to mean, but he decides that can wait. He has forgotten how cold it can sometimes be in Erebor, so he drapes his old fur coat on, finding comfort in the warmth it provides. He finds out that his leg is doing better and that he no longer feels the need to limp.

Once he steps foot out of the Royal Wing, he is met with an incredibly loud group of Dwarves from the Iron Hills, running left and right down the halls, moving rubble around. He feels out of place and he looks around in confusion. No one notices him, and all the unknown Dwarves seem to be fully engaged in their tasks.

Thankfully, he spots Balin, who is standing in a corner, quietly overseeing the entire activity. But before he can approach Balin, two bodies crash into him, tackling his sides in twin bear hugs. He exhales forcefully at the impact, then his expression breaks gently into a smile. He leans in, to press a kiss upon each head buried into his shoulders, warmth surging in his chest. He wants to hug back, but his arms are trapped in the two tight embraces.

When Fíli and Kíli finally let go, Thorin notices the heavy cast Kíli’s right arm is in, and the way Fíli was bothered by the wound on his back. He can’t help but embrace them again, as tightly as possible, this time his own arms going around his nephews, one around Fíli’s neck and the other around Kíli’s middle.

Both of the boys start mumbling into Thorin’s chest incoherently, and Thorin’s smile deepens. Bowing his head, he whispers three words to them, three words that don’t leave his mouth often enough. When they look up at him, and say those words back, their eyes glisten.

Balin coughs behind them and the boys let go of their uncle for the second time, Kíli using his only available sleeve to wipe at his eyes. Fíli jabs at his brother’s side with a finger.

“Are you crying, Kee?”

“Shut up!” Kíli retorts. “There was something in my eye.”

Balin seems to be happy to see Thorin as well. When Thorin asks about the Dwarves in the halls, Balin explains that Dáin sent in all his available soldiers, to help make Erebor habitable. Thorin can’t help but feel guilty that he slept for so long, instead of managing this himself. He is, after all, King under the Mountain.

He frowns and thanks Balin for doing this in his stead, saying that he can take care of it himself from now on. Balin shakes his head.

“Óin says you’re still ‘unfit for duty’. Defeating the Gold Sickness, then fighting in the battle took a toll on your health, Thorin. You can’t push yourself too hard now. I wouldn’t be surprised if Óin ushered you right back to bed if he saw you out here.” Balin looks at him in concern. Then his expression changes, into a lopsided, mischievous smile, which reminds Thorin of their younger days.

“Stay away from the Infirmary, is my advice,” he whispers conspicuously, then winks.

Thorin reluctantly accepts his fate and sighs. His nephews drag him by the hands towards what he remembers to be the dining hall, Balin tagging along. Both of the boys keep talking incessantly, about Erebor and the fight, with an enthusiasm Thorin hasn’t seen in them for a long time. They are going to have breakfast in the great dining hall, together with the rest of the Company, and Fíli and Kíli seem to be extremely excited about that. He listens to their happy rants, focusing on them rather than on the gap he knows is forming in his chest.

At first was just a tiny fissure, which he overlooked, a few mornings ago (two, three? Four, maybe? The notion of time is slowly slipping away from him), when he almost killed his One and banished him. He didn’t feel it then, the Sickness and the raw feeling of betrayal concealed it all too well. It cracked even more, when he watched Azog impale Bilbo. Then, it slowly extended, when Bilbo almost bled to death in his arms. That’s when he felt it the first time, and he asked himself how come he couldn’t feel it before. He’d been an idiot.

And now, that he’s denied himself his One, refusing to reach out and mend the fissures in the potential bond, he’s hurting more than ever. It makes sense, somehow. He didn’t tend to the bond properly. He didn’t even acknowledge it, he dismissed it like it was nothing. He hurt his One, so now it’s his time to hurt.

Thorin can deal with pain. He’s learnt to live with it. But this gaping hole inside his chest is different. It demands attention, it screams out at him, asking for something Thorin knows he can’t have.

And oh, what a bond it would’ve been.

It fed itself on friendly touches and smiles, on simple companionship and trust, and it grew and blossomed so beautifully. It would’ve been the purest of bonds. Platonic at first, built on mutual respect and trust, evolving steadily. Maybe, if Bilbo forgives Thorin at some point in the future, the bond could learn to live on that again, and stop tormenting him, like a sharp knife’s blade brushing incessantly against a bleeding scab. Bilbo would never have to know that he literally broke Thorin’s heart, but his simple acceptance and forgiveness would keep Thorin sane and alive. Maybe Thorin would even learn to live with himself, knowing that he destroyed one of the few good things that were left in his life.

He wonders if he will be able to stomach this meal. He feels weak and hungry, and he knows he needs to eat, if he wants a fast recovery. Which he does, he’s got a reclaimed kingdom to manage.

The Company welcomes him back wholeheartedly, as if the Sickness never happened. They are already eating, and they stand up when he enters, exclaiming in pleasant surprise. He fakes a half-smile, even though he is kind of happy to see them all again, safe and gathered together. Óin is still in the Infirmary, but besides him everyone is present. If he is to trust Balin’s words, maybe it’s better that Óin isn’t present. Thorin takes his seat almost naturally at the head of the table, his nephews at his sides.

Shortly after their arrival, Dáin joins them too, seating himself at the other end of the long table nonchalantly. He greets Thorin loudly, and Thorin nods at him instead of replying. He’s not in the mood for his loud cousin. Thorin pays attention to his meal, eating slowly, and hoping he won’t make a fool of himself by throwing up at the table.

He listens to what the members of his Company discuss and he chips in by asking Bifur about his newly reacquired speaking abilities and by thanking Dáin for the help he’s providing with the clean-up. His interventions are short, impassive, which wouldn’t be uncharacteristic of him, but he’s in good company, among friends, and the others know he can drop the pretence.

They sense something is wrong. They don’t ask. Dáin seems unaware, though, and he’s the only one who would press the issue. So, Thorin eats as quietly as he can, secretly satisfied that he is left alone.

Until Dáin broaches the topic of Dwalin and Ori.

The two bonded Dwarves are sitting next to each other. Ori is suspiciously eating with his left hand, a bit clumsily, even though he is right-handed, while his right hand is underneath the table. Interestingly, Dwalin’s left hand, the one next to Ori’s side, is also under the table. Even a blind fool could tell that their hands are joined, meeting halfway. Thorin tries not to look.

Dáin promptly offers congratulations, by raising a glass—who, besides Dáin himself, is drinking wine at breakfast, anyway?— and by making a comment related to Dwalin’s romantic endeavours at his age. He also compares their contrasting physical appearances in an unflattering way. He doesn’t do it with a bad intention, but it comes out wrong.

Dwalin just keeps his eyes on his meal and grunts a ‘thank you’ for the congratulations, while Ori furrows his eyebrows and opens his mouth to say something, but he closes it within seconds, turning his head to look at Dwalin and smiling fondly.

Thorin thinks they’re finished talking about this subject, when his cousin addresses him.

“So, Thorin. Don’t you think it’s time you settled down as well?”

Thorin chokes on his porridge. He’s quick to mask it, raising the napkin to his mouth and wiping slowly, buying himself time. The whole Company is watching him expectantly, Dáin too, with a smirk plastered on his face.

“I hear your One is nowhere in sight, cousin,” he continues. Thorin almost snorts at the irony. Dáin lowers his head, dragging the knife and fork loudly on his plate, and taking a bite of his meal. He’s still chewing when he speaks again, loudly and convinced of his own words.

“You ought to take a Consort, now that you truly are the King under the Mountain. It wouldn’t be fair if Erebor doesn’t get a Queen. Shall I introduce you to some of my ladies at court? Pretty young things, I must say. Surely one of ‘em would catch even your pretentious eye.”

Thorin hasn’t even had a proper coronation yet. There’s not even been a feast yet, to celebrate the victory. They’re still mourning the losses they suffered in battle, and most of the Dwarves are still recovering. And Dáin thinks of arranged royal marriages? His cousin is known to be a bit dense and insensible at times, as any other Dwarf, but does he have no decency?

Thorin clears his throat, hoping to find strength to sound reasonable and diplomatic. He can’t risk the alliance with Dáin. Challenging their friendship would be a major setback in everything he wants to achieve from now on. His hand clenches around the napkin.

“Thank you for your concern, Dáin. Your offer is… tempting, but I must decline. There are more urgent matters that must be attended to in Erebor, but I will reconsider your generous offer later in my reign, have no doubt.”

‘ _Never. Not ever,_ ’ his mind provides. His breathing is already in synchronisation with the syllables of a name. ‘ _Bil-bo. Bil-bo_ ,’ his lungs chant every time he inhales and exhales. The thought of another name that would take its place makes his blood boil.

Dáin squints, untrustingly. “Has someone caught your eye, cousin?”

Thorin throws away the napkin, snapping it loudly against the edge of the table. The Company tenses, suddenly focusing their attention on their own plates. Even Dwalin and Ori let go of each other’s hands, bringing them up to rest in everyone’s sight on the table, little fingers still touching.

Dáin just narrows his eyes more, definitely interested by the turn in the situation.

“No, Dáin.” Thorin doesn’t know how he manages to do it, but he fakes a warm, amused chuckle. “Fortunately, no one has been that unlucky.” Good, he congratulates himself. Some self-deprecating funny comment should do the trick.

His cousin bursts into laughter. When it dies out, Dáin leans in over the table, as if he is about to tell a secret, even though the table is over thirty feet long and he and Thorin are on opposite ends.

“Nonsense! You’d be a catch, Thorin, but not with that attitude,” he tuts, shaking his head. “Take Dwalin’s example here,” Dáin points at Dwalin with the handle of his fork. “He’s even grumpier than you are, but he landed himself quite the prize.” Dáin winks at Ori. “You do have the looks of a Durin’s son, but maybe you should take advice from Dwalin, cousin. Your need to polish your charm a bit, so that you won’t scare away anyone who might want to stay.”

Thorin’s nostrils flare and he tries not to flinch at the allusion. ‘ _Bilbo is not going to want to stay_ ,’ is the first thought that comes to his mind. He bites on the inside of his cheek, willing those kind of thoughts away. Seconds later, he finds himself laughing, mostly at the irony of the situation, but Dáin takes it as a reaction to his comment.

The others resume the previous natural flow of the conversation, while Thorin finishes his meal in peace. When he stands up to leave, Kíli tugs at his sleeve, standing up as well.

“Uncle?”

Kíli is surprisingly still, almost shy. He’s been quiet for most of the meal, and Thorin noticed it, but he supposed it was because of his injury. That might not be the case, since Kíli now looks up expectantly at his uncle.

The corners of Thorin’s mouth are slightly pulled upwards. Lately, his nephews are the only ones who manage to pluck a legit smile from him. “Yes, Kíli?”

“May I… talk to you about something?” Kíli says hesitantly. “Um, in—in private, I mean,” he adds, glancing around at the other members of the Company, some of which are looking their way.

Thorin is somewhat confused. What would Kíli want to ask him in private that would make him so nervous? He easily agrees though, telling Kíli to follow him.

However, before he can leave the dining hall, Dáin calls him back, not sounding as cheerful as before. Thorin waits for his approach and tells Kíli to wait for him outside the hall. Balin stays by his side, sensing that the matter Dáin wants to tackle might be of diplomatic nature.

“Thorin. The Bard the Dragonslayer and the Elvenking are still waiting at the gates. There needs to be a meeting, and soon. I know you’re injured and still tired, but it cannot be postponed.”

Thorin nods, glad that Dáin told him about this. It’s certainly more relevant than what they discussed during breakfast. He turns to Balin, for some kind of confirmation on what he has just learned. Balin nods as well, reluctantly. Dáin was right, or so it would seem. A meeting has been on his mind as well, as of this morning, and Thorin agrees with the fact that its occurrence is of utmost importance.

“Tomorrow morning, in the Council Chambers,” he says in a steady voice.

Dáin looks pleased. “Very well, cousin. Thank you for breakfast, it was _enlightening_.” And he walks away, not before telling Thorin to get some rest before tomorrow’s meeting.

Thorin can’t shake off the feeling that Dáin knows something he shouldn’t. Dáin has always been like this, a sly, insensitive plotter with a short temper, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. A family trait Thorin is grateful he hasn’t inherited. At least, not on such a large scale as Dáin has. Maybe Dáin is just pulling his leg, toying with him, but he cannot take that risk.

After he and Balin go over the list of people that need to attend the said meeting and Balin assures him that he’ll inform everyone, Thorin finally leaves the dining hall.

Kíli is waiting for him in the hallway, tapping nervously at the surface of his cast with the fingers on his healthy hand. Thorin squeezes at the nape of his head in a fatherly manner, guiding him down the hallway. “Shall we go up?” he asks Kíli with fondness. The boy smiles weakly and agrees.

They make their way up to the Royal Quarters in silence, with the exception of some small talk and Thorin’s inquiries about Kíli’s wellbeing. He’s never seen Kíli so quiet and thoughtful, which honestly worries him and makes him wonder what could possibly bother Kíli in such a way to make him act so much unlike himself.

He has his suspicions though, and if they prove to be true, he’ll be more than supportive. He’s slightly startled to find himself agreeable to the idea, when he found it inconceivable just a few days ago. He can see why Kíli would be so troubled if that were the case. The boy probably fears his reaction.

When they reach Thorin’s room, Kíli sits upon the edge of the bed, looking down at his cast and fidgeting with the sling’s threads. Thorin closes the door slowly behind him and sits at the table. Knowing Kíli, he gives him some time to gather his thoughts and patiently waits.

There is a platter with a water decanter and glasses on the table, which was probably brought in while he was at breakfast, along with clean sheets and towels. Thorin has no idea who did this and how they found those in the dusty mountain. Surely his personal comfort isn’t a priority right now.

Thorin pours some water for the two of them, and Kíli thanks him noncommittally, gulping down the cool liquid. Then, the younger Dwarf starts pacing around the room nervously. He moves around for a couple of minutes, putting Thorin’s patience to a severe test.

“Kíli—” he starts calmly, trying to encourage his nephew to speak his mind.

“I think Tauriel is my One,” Kíli interrupts him, blurting out the words softly. He has stopped pacing, and he’s standing uncharacteristically still, looking at his shoes rather than at his uncle.

“I know,” Thorin says, unsurprised, taking a sip of water.

“You do?” Kíli’s head shoots up, eyes wide. His ears are reddening and Thorin looks at him in amusement.

“Yes, Kíli, I think it is quite obvious.” Neither he nor she has been hiding it too well, in fact. “If you want my permission to start courting her, you have it, of course, along with my blessing and good wishes,” Thorin says warmly, not wanting to stress his nephew any longer.

Kíli lets himself collapse back on the bed, as red as a tomato. He rests his temple against one of the wooden posts. “Really?” he mutters, looking as happy as Thorin’s ever seen him.

“Yes,” Thorin affirms, close to chuckling. He can’t believe Kíli was so nervous about this. Did Kíli really think he’d deny him happiness?

“But… how come? You—with Elves… I mean, you’ve always…” Kíli stutters and trails off.

Thorin freezes. Of course he’s not going to deny his nephew permission to court his One. It would be cruel and unnecessary for him, especially now when he’s acknowledged Bilbo for what he truly is. He’d be a hypocrite and a tyrant if he were to forbid Kíli from being with who he’s meant to be. So what if she’s an Elf? Thorin is slowly starting to get over his hatred for Elves unconsciously, even though he still doesn’t trust the bastards. And Tauriel is the one who proved his prejudices wrong. She is a good person, worthy of his nephew, and Thorin would be a fool if he stopped Kíli from being with her.

It’s clearly heretical and many will oppose this, the union between an Elf and a Dwarf, especially a Dwarf of royal descent. It would be a first in history. But Thorin is king now (well, there’s got to be a coronation first, to make it official, but he’s there is no doubt in the fact that the position is going to be his), and it’s his word against commoners’. Thorin will see it fulfilled, no matter what. It’s his duty, as head of the family, as Kíli’s guardian.

“Don’t be silly, Kíli. She’s your One. Now, have you spoken with her about this?”

“Err, I tried, last evening. I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t do it, not before talking to you about it. There’s a slight problem, though,” Kíli confesses, sounding conflicted.

“There is?” Thorin asks, arching his eyebrows. He’s seen Tauriel with Kíli and she’s always looked at him like he’s the light of her life. Why would there be any problem?

“Did you know that Thranduil banished her, before the battle?” Thorin nods at this. Narrow-minded tree-shagger. “Well, when he came here to help with Bilbo’s healing, he’s met with Tauriel and apologised to her. He also lifted her banishment. She’s always been Thranduil’s protégée and it was selfish and stupid of me to think that she’d be happy cutting off her ties to her home and close ones just because Thranduil spat out some words he didn’t really mean. She’s welcome to go back to Mirkwood, if she wants. She told me about this last evening, without mentioning if she’s going to go back or not. She seemed really… uncertain, and I don’t know what to do. I mean, I think she likes me back, but I don’t know if it’s enough and anyway, why would she stay here? She’d be an outcast, unwelcome.”

“Tell her how you feel, Kíli. She needs to hear it. If she decides to leave after that, then… give her a reason to come back,” Thorin implies, hoping that his advice will prove useful. “And she’ll always be welcome here. I even told her so myself.”

Kíli is already beginning to look more and more hopeful, and Thorin feels pleased with himself. He’s always thrived to be a good uncle, involved in his nephews’ lives, and he can only call this a success.

“All right, I’ll do that,” Kíli says and smiles brightly. “I’ve got an idea, but this thing kind of stands in my way.” He knocks at his cast.

“You want to craft your courtship beads,” Thorin says, not even bothering to make it sound as a question. Judging by Kíli’s reaction, he’s right.

“I know exactly how I want them to look like. I made Ori draw them for me the other day. I want to make them myself though, but I can’t do it because of this stupid cast,” Kíli explains, groaning in frustration.

Thorin understands. It a tradition for one to craft the beads themselves, to design them according to the way in which they perceive their intended, and he’s proud of Kíli for wanting to do this the right way. But in a situation like this, when one is incapable of crafting or there simply isn’t time, there’s an acceptable alternative.

Thorin stands up and approaches the wardrobe where he knows the few belongings he carried around during the journey were put. He rummages through his bags until he finds a small, old-looking leather pouch, bound with a thin drawstring. He opens it to reveal two elegant standard silver beads that bear Durin’s symbols. Kíli looks at them in awe when Thorin shows them to him. It's obvious that they are of superior quality, the light reflecting beautifully off the polished metal.

“King Thrór made them for your great-grandmother. I’ve been in their possession ever since she died. They’re a family heirloom, so they’ll do wonderfully, as a promise at least, until you recover and you’re able to make your own, if you still wish to do so,” Thorin clarifies, when he sees that Kíli hesitates to take them.

He closes the pouch by pulling the drawstring tightly, and places it in Kíli’s hand, enclosing the boy’s fingers around it.

“Uncle, didn’t you say you were going to braid them into your One’s hair when you found them? They’re supposed to be your courtship beads!” Kíli exclaims, shocked by Thorin’s offer.

Thorin remembers showing the beads to him and Fíli, a long time ago, when he was younger, more hopeful, and the boys were just small children. The three of them were sitting in front of the fire, in their modest home back in the Blue Mountains, and the boys happened to ask of Ones and traditions. Thorin obliged and told them everything he knew, showing the beads to support his stories. Dís had listened to them fondly from the kitchen, thinking about the One she had lost herself, unable to join them. At the time, the beads were the most important things he had, and he had known since he was a dwarfling that his grandmother would give them to him when he found his One.

Back then, he often dreamed of meeting his One, someone who was supposed to make him forget about dragon fire and the sight of his burnt, crumbled home.

After that, when they started struggling more and more and he could barely support his family, he often thought of selling the beads, one of the few things he had left that reminded him of Erebor, but he could never bring himself to do so. He was still hoping that his One would show up, and he used to carry the beads with him wherever he went, as some sort of talisman. His faith in ever meeting his One slowly diminished over time, but their meaning was never lost.

So, Thorin shakes his head with determination, refusing to take back the pouch when Kíli tries to return it to him. Those beads would never suit Bilbo anyway, and it’s not as if he’ll ever get to braid any kind of bead in Bilbo’s lovely curls.

Kíli looks at him sadly and grasps the pouch tightly in his hand, giving up on trying to return them to their rightful owner. He stands up and hugs Thorin tightly, for the third time today. Thorin hugs back, and when he lets go, Kíli looks at him with tears in his eyes, as if he understands what Thorin is giving up.

“Thank you,” Kíli whispers. “Thank you so much, Uncle.”

“You’re welcome, Kíli. Go tell her. I better see those beads in her hair tomorrow,” Thorin says, not letting his bitter emotions surface.

Kíli smiles, like the fool in love he is, and nods. He bids his uncle goodbye affectionately before he’s out the door.


	7. A Touch of Diplomacy

As Thorin is left alone in the cold chamber, standing still and looking for a distraction, he wishes that the decanter was filled with wine instead of plain water.

Balin comes to visit him in his room later, saving him from the thoughts that have started to swarm him. Fortunately, the older Dwarf proposes an effective distraction, and so, he and Balin go over the many matters that need to be settled by Thorin and Thorin alone.

They spend hours discussing the best way to split the treasure and the amount of gold that they’d be willing to give to Bard and Thranduil. Reports of the battle are read over and over, losses and damages are accounted. Once Erebor’s current state is analysed, they finally decide that the main priority is making the Mountain habitable once again.

Tomorrow’s meeting is crucial and Thorin spends his whole afternoon catching up on issues that need to be discussed, besides the payments that must be carried out. If the meeting goes well, they would also have the support of Bard’s men and, perhaps, the beginning of an alliance with the Elves.

Getting a kingdom back on its feet is a difficult, lengthy process and they need all the help they can get. They have the gold, the means to hire and pay people for work, but there’s also the matter of accommodation and food, and Thorin gets a splitting headache from thinking of an efficient solution to that alone. Their resources are scarce as they are, and Thorin is not willing to let his people and allies starve.

Balin tells him to take a break, because he is obviously straining himself. He doesn’t need to make these decisions and to find solutions right away, and Balin makes sure that it’s a simple briefing and not a serious meeting between the two of them. They merely need a sketch of a plan to follow. Thorin, however, has none of that. He’s willing to go deeper, refusing to remain uninformed, so he practically coaxes Balin into telling him everything he knows, in spite of his throbbing headache.

Thorin despises this bureaucratic work. Of course, as a princeling, he’s had his load of lessons in politics, economy and diplomacy, among others. But at that time, he wasn’t training to be king. He was just a child, learning about simple concepts and about Durin’s legacy, which he was supposed to carry on. Thorin did have a position at Thrór’s court and in his councils, as a young advisor, but he was never truly passionate about these matters, even though he handled them with professionalism.

His grandfather was a good enough ruler and his reign was supposed to last longer than it actually had. If Smaug’s attack hadn’t happened and King Thrór had died a peaceful death, Thorin’s father would have been next in line for the throne, anyway. Thorin was supposed to be king in the later years of his life, and much of his academic preparation for the position itself was postponed, as he would have learnt from his predecessors by simply observing their rule throughout his adult life.

As he matured in exile, with no opportunity of practicing this particular set of skills a leader must have, Thorin forgot how to manage most of his responsibilities related to bureaucracy. The ability of dealing with paperwork isn’t what makes a good king, in Thorin’s opinion. But then again, he has yet to see what it means to be a king in time of peace, since he only knows what it’s like to lead others in time of war.

It’s been good so far, though. The work distracts him from other things, and by the time Balin leaves his chamber, after deciding everything that could be decided without tomorrow’s meeting, it’s almost evening already.

In light of those decisions, Thorin also writes a letter to his sister, Dís. She’s currently in charge of their settlement in the Blue Mountains and Thorin thinks he should tell her of their triumph, so she can start sending Dwarves to Erebor. If his calculations are correct, the first caravan from the Blue Mountains should arrive in three or four months’ time, if Dís moves quickly enough with its organisation.

Thorin actually writes two separate letters to Dís. An official one, bearing Durin’s seal, to tell her of their accomplishments and to urge her to send the caravans, and an unofficial one, much more personal, in which he rambles on about her sons and the battle, about the last events of their journey.

He doesn’t mention finding his One, even though he had promised her, a long time ago, that she’d be the first one he’d tell and he’d tell her as soon as it happened, if it ever happened. He does tell her about Bilbo, the brave and loyal Hobbit, whose deeds have had a great role in reclaiming Erebor. He also tells her that without Bilbo they would’ve lost the battle before it had even started and that the Hobbit saved his life, sacrificing his own for Thorin’ sake.

He smiles to himself, knowing that Dís would like Bilbo very much, if they ever were to meet. His sister would take an instant liking to Bilbo’s character, he’s sure of it. And Bilbo would most likely be able to see past her sweet charms and admire the cunning Dwarrowdam underneath.

By writing to Dís, he realises just how much he misses his sister. Before the quest for Erebor and ever since her birth, they’ve never been apart for more than a few days. He wishes she were here now to berate him for what he’s done to Bilbo and to give him advice on the administrative problems. She’s always been a better diplomat than him, anyway. While he’d been the brawn, she’d always been the brains.

The letters take him a lot of time and some Dwarf wordlessly brings him dinner in his room. He eats it absentmindedly, not even noticing that he’s finally able to stomach a meal properly.

After he finds a raven to take the letters and sends them off, he finds himself returning to Bilbo’s room instead of his, following some kind of irrepressible instinct. He’s been thinking and worrying all day about Bilbo’s wellbeing and, since the Hobbit is part of the Company and he’s the leader of the Company, it’s his obligation to check on Bilbo. Right?

That’s the excuse he tells himself as he opens the door and enters the room. But any rational thought of his duties to the members of his Company vanishes when he sees the pale Hobbit on the bed.

He just—he just feels like he doesn’t belong in the room, like he’s an intruder. He shouldn’t be here. He stumbles, and out of a sudden, he’s light-headed and feels like he’s about to collapse. He is ready to step back, to leave, to get out of there, but there’s another person in the room, a voice saying his name, managing to protrude through the white noise in his ears.

“Thorin. Good evening to you too. You just couldn’t stay away, eh? And don’t you think that I don’t know—Thorin? Hey, what’s with you? Thorin!”

Thorin shakes his dizziness off. “Óin. I’m fine.”

“The hell you are. Sit down!”

His vision is swimming and he lets Óin usher him into the armchair in which he slept last night.

“I _am_ fine, just tired,” he insists, annoyed and grumbling, when Óin manhandles his head to check his pupils.

The healer’s frown is deep and unforgiving, even though he doesn’t find anything alarming after his inspection. “Listen to me, you fool. If you don’t take serious care of your health I’m going to have to—”

“Óin. How is he?” he interrupts the other Dwarf loudly.

Óin just sighs and puts his hands on his hips. He shakes his head, and Thorin can swear that he hears him muttering ungodly-phrased complaints to Mahal under his breath before he gives in.

“He’s doing well. Much better than expected, given the situation.”

It’s not much, but something in Thorin’s chest relaxes at the news. Óin turns his back at Thorin and scuttles around Bilbo’s bed, fluffing his pillows, checking his temperature and uncovering him to change his bandages. Thorin watches intently, focusing on the healer’s facial expression, hoping he’d catch a reaction that would tell if something is wrong. But Óin is stern and he doesn’t give away the slightest hint of emotion as he does his job dutifully.

When the older Dwarf is finished with the check-up, Thorin waits impatiently for his conclusion, drumming his fingers on the chair’s armrest. When Óin makes eye contact with him, he stares at the healer expectantly, until Óin rolls his eyes.

“He’s a bit feverish, but that’s normal. No signs of infections or other complications, and he’ll probably make a full recovery.”

That’s not everything Thorin wanted to hear. “When is he going to wake up?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Óin says, and looks away, crossing the room to wash his hands thoroughly at the sink in the corner of the room. “It could be hours, it could be days. That’s what the Elves said as well.”

Thorin grunts in acknowledgement, not knowing what else to say. He’s aware that his behaviour is questionable right now. He’s tense, fretful, and he’s showing too much of his worry. He clenches and unclenches his hand on the armrest, ready to deny any kind of accusation that Óin might throw at him, be it true or false.

Instead of doing that, Óin just tells him that the Company stopped by today, for a lengthy visit, while he and Balin were waist deep in political matters. Thorin learns he’s not the only Dwarf that’s fond of the Hobbit, at least in the non-soulbonding way. He’s glad, however, that the others befriended Bilbo and now care about him to this extent.

Óin goes on, telling him of the merriment that commenced in the room on a quiet tone, then evolved into well-told anecdotes and roars of laughter. Thorin wouldn’t have expected less from them, it’s in their nature to be optimistic. They’re the twelve Dwarves who signed up to take a mountain back from a fire breathing dragon, after all. Thorin himself could never afford to be so optimistic. Not when he has so much weight to carry.

When Thorin hears that Gandalf was also a part of the group that visited Bilbo, he starts to question why exactly Wizard hasn’t sought him out yet, to berate him for what he’s done. Judging by how furious Gandalf seemed when Thorin saw him last, when Thranduil and his healers came to Erebor to save Bilbo, he was sure that the Wizard wouldn’t rest until he’s given Thorin a piece of his mind. But that none of that has happened yet, surprisingly.

He’s also informed of the fact that Beorn was among Bilbo’s visitors as well. Óin describes rather vividly Beorn’s struggles to fit in a Dwarf-sized room, and Thorin finds himself sketching a smile as he listens to the story. When Thorin asks how come Beorn is still in Erebor and not back to his homely residence, Óin tells him that the Skin-changer has decided to remain in Erebor for a little while, to help in the aftermath of the battle and to make sure that everyone ‘plays nice’. Thorin realises quickly how precious Beorn’s help truly is and decides to offer his thanks personally to the Shape-shifter. It’s the least he can do, since he’s quite sure that Beorn has no need for gold or anything of the like.

Óin looks like he’s been awake for far too long, and after the healer updates him on everything that has happened today, Thorin demands that he gets some well-deserved rest as well. Óin has nothing left to say to that, and instructs him to check on Bilbo periodically if he intends to spend more time in the room. Hearing this, Thorin guesses that Óin knows he spent the last night here. He expects Óin to make some kind of allusion to this, but the other Dwarf doesn’t say anything related to the matter.

It’s only after Óin leaves that Thorin realises that checking on Bilbo involves touching him. He sighs and stands up. Óin shouldn’t have entrusted him with this task. Eyeing the armchair warily, he decides that his back cannot take another night spent in that comfortable (in appearance only) piece of furniture, not when he has the meeting tomorrow. But it’s not late yet. And he wants to go over the papers Balin brought him again.

He returns for a short period of time to his own room, to change into more comfortable clothes and to get the papers. On his way back to Bilbo’s room, he crosses the hall to say goodnight to his nephews.

Fíli and Kíli are both in their beds, but deep in conversation, excited and giggling like dwarflings. Thorin can only assume that Kíli was successful in his endeavour earlier today. The image of the two chatting enthusiastically tugs warmly at his heart. This is why he fought for Erebor. For them, so that they could be here, as happy as they’ve ever been. He bids them goodnight fondly and they beam at him, as if the battle didn’t happen, as if he hadn’t risked their safety trying to ‘defend’ a hoard of gold.

He’s got to be a better Uncle to them, he thinks bitterly as he retreats in the hallway. He’s got to right his wrongs, and he’s going to start by being there for his nephews and by taking care of Bilbo. Maybe redemption is not as far as he thinks.

He retreats into Bilbo’s room silently and drags the armchair from the bed’s side to the table, then spreads out his papers on top of the wooden surface. He sits down slowly, suddenly preoccupied by the discomfort caused by his injured thigh. It’s begun to itch, letting him know that a scab is forming. He’s well aware that it’s not going to scar prettily, not with the way he’s been treating the poor wound. But, at this point, what’s one more nasty scar?

He picks one random sheet of paper from his pile and starts reading unenthusiastically. Halfway through pretending to read the third report, he stops shamelessly and admits to himself that he can’t concentrate. He can’t even remember what he has just read as he pushes the papers away from his sight. Sighing, he stands up and properly looks at Bilbo for the first time this evening.

The Hobbit’s skin is even paler than Thorin remembers it was in the morning, and he can’t help but think that Bilbo actually is worse than before, despite having heard otherwise from Óin. His curls look lifeless and slightly damp with sweat, and his breathing sounds wheezy. Thorin’s hand automatically reaches out, seeking to check how warm Bilbo’s forehead is. Entirely forgetting how he couldn’t do so last night, his fingers meet heated skin, and Thorin jolts at the burning sensation. So much warmth and sweating can’t possibly be good, even though Óin said it was normal.

Following the instructions Óin gave him in case of such a situation, Thorin grabs a clean piece of white cloth and drenches it in cold water at the sink, then wrings it deftly before placing it with the utmost care on Bilbo’s forehead. There’s an almost instant change in Bilbo’s breathing; it now sounds relieved and less forceful. He drags the armchair back in its original place and he retakes his post by Bilbo’s bedside, giving up on paperwork entirely.

Without realising, Thorin’s fingers find their way in Bilbo’s hair, moving in a soothing, circular motion, curls tangling at the soft touch of his fingertips. Maybe he just imagines it, but he can swear that he feels Bilbo leaning into the touch, drawing closer to him. Probably Bilbo is just turning into his sleep, but Thorin can’t help but smile. The shift in Bilbo’s position exposes one of those pointed ears that Thorin adores and he can’t help but brush over it endearingly with his thumb.

And he thought he could stay away.

Sometime later, he removes his hand from Bilbo’s hair, only to find the Hobbit’s, which lies still upon the blankets. He entwines their fingers, cradling the smaller hand into his gingerly, then he places a feather light kiss upon the pale knuckles.

Thorin feels like his chest is going to burst open. He has no right, that hasn’t changed, but he can’t fight this. The bond and these emotions that he can’t even begin to explain are just too much. He just wants to stay here forever, holding Bilbo’s hand and never letting go, but he knows that can’t happen.

But he’ll stay for now, as they’re both healing. And well, Bilbo will never have to know who bestowed phantom kisses on his knuckles on top of taking care of him. It’s kind of feels like doing something very, very wrong, Thorin realises, being here not as a leader or a friend, as he keeps telling himself, but as a wounded Dwarf who needs to be in his One’s proximity. Once Bilbo wakes up, though, he’ll have to back off and stay away. He doesn’t know how he’ll manage that.

He loses track of time, pressing dozens of light kisses on the back of Bilbo’s hand. It’s definitely well after midnight when he sits up and removes the moist cloth from Bilbo’s forehead. He checks his temperature again and he’s satisfied to find out that the fever broke. Relieved, he leans in to place one last gentle kiss upon Bilbo’s brow and he noses longingly at the Hobbit’s hairline.

Leaving the candles burning in case Bilbo wakes up during the night, he gathers his papers and steps out of the room, almost unwillingly. He’d stay more, but he needs to sleep. As much as he loves being in the room and watching over his One, he’s got to rest if he wants to be able to function properly tomorrow.

In his own room, he falls asleep as soon as his head touches the pillows, the taste of Bilbo’s skin still upon his lips.

 

~*~

 

He can’t remember the last time he’s slept so peacefully. Even though he only caught four or five hours of sleep, less than what he considers optimal, he wakes up easily enough, feeling well-rested. Soon enough, he realises it’s not the sleep that made him recover most of his strength overnight, it’s actually the way he spent his evening.

He’s heard that the soulbond can enhance one’s health remarkably, but he didn’t expect its effects to be noticeable immediately after he’d just stopped trying to resist its pull for the tiniest of moments. He wonders if this benefits Bilbo too; perhaps it would help him heal. But after all he’s done, there’s no point in believing that the bond goes both ways. Of course he hopes and yearns and _wants_ , he’d be the world’s greatest idiot if he didn’t, but he knows better.

Looking back at what he did last night with a clear mind, Thorin suddenly feels guilty and ashamed. He shouldn’t have touched Bilbo like that, he shouldn’t have let his instincts take over his rationality. The fact that he feels so well because of his actions just enhances his regret.

He dons his kingly attire mechanically, thinking that he’s got used to the new routine rather easily. It seems like he’s been doing this his whole life, and he would have been living this way most probably, if certain events wouldn’t have happened. But his new clothing is too soft, his mantle feels heavier than ever, his jewellery is more glamorous than anything he’s ever worn. It’s like he’s a new Thorin, one who has left behind the ‘Oakenshield’ name. In appearance, at least, he feels like he’s changed completely. It makes him dread the upcoming coronation. 

Just about when he’s ready to leave the room and head downstairs, a random Dwarf he doesn’t know knocks at his door, a tray of food balanced in his hand, and asks him if he wants to serve breakfast in his quarters. Thorin gives it a thought and a selfish idea strikes him. He’s got enough time to eat his breakfast properly, so why should he do so in the great hall, where everything is so loud and tense, or in his room, where he feels isolated and cold, instead of basking in the near presence of his One? Then a moment of lucidity clears away the clouds in his mind and he doesn’t tell the Dwarf to take the tray in the next room down the hall. This is getting ridiculous. Is he really that dependent on the bond?

Instead, he eats his breakfast alone, grumpier than ever, in the seclusion of his room, almost as if he is punishing himself. He wipes at his mouth aggressively with a napkin when he’s finished. He fidgets with the golden brooch that holds the heavy mantle upon his shoulders, while he paces impatiently several times across the room. Then, he heads out, closing the door loudly behind him.

But he realises he’s not really in a hurry, so, for once, he has time to stop and reacquaint himself with the place he grew up in. His irritation is slowly replaced by nostalgia as he looks attentively at the unmistakable accents of Dwarven architecture.

The Royal Wing is just as he remembers it. A dozen rooms on each side of a great corridor, some of them even connected to each other, meant to host large families from the line of Durin. The corridor is lit permanently by torches hung across the walls, one every five meters. A great crystal and silver chandelier is suspended gracefully above the middle of the corridor, a thin silver chain attaching it to the high ceiling. The candles in the chandelier aren’t lit and Thorin makes a mental note to have the exquisite device brought back to life at some point in the near future, as he remembers fondly the strong impression he was left with as a child, when he used to look up and see the lights dancing across the ceiling.

The Wing was hewn from a silver mine, so rivulets of unexploited silver ore adorn the walls and the ceiling, running across every inch of stone. As children, Thorin, Dís, and Frerin used to run across the corridor, tracing the veins with their fingers and looking up, mesmerised by the way in which the flickering lights of the chandelier made the silver veins look like they were glimmering serpents of molten metal, swimming lively across the sharp surface of the stone.

All of the doors are crafted in the same fashion: made out of dark wood, tall, with geometric patterns carved along the doorframe and Durin’s mark right in the centre, above the door’s number etched in an older form of the traditional Khuzdul runes, except for the door to the sole room at the end of the corridor, which is considerably taller and wider than the others. Thorin knows that is going to be his room, sometime soon.

He’s missed this more than he thought. His steps feel light as he begins to descend the long staircase which connects the Royal Wing to the rest of Erebor and he drags his palm along the polished stone handrail. The bronze ring he always wears, bearing his line’s seal, makes a satisfying noise when he taps it against the handrail.

Balin waits for him near the treasury, with his arms folded in front of him, each hand tucked neatly into the opposite sleeve of his old red coat. It looks like the Dwarf has paid extra attention to the way in which he dressed and combed his beard and hair this morning. His expression is stern and his shoulders are drawn back solemnly as he bids Thorin good morning without that spark of joviality that accompanies the old Dwarf’s mannerisms.

It makes Thorin wonder just how crucial this meeting is going to be, in regard to Erebor’s future, seeing that its anticipation has made Balin so stressed. It’s enough to chase away any remnants of the good type of melancholy Thorin felt just seconds before, making him return to his state of irascibility from earlier.

They make their way to the Council Chambers and Balin uses the little time the short trip buys them to talk Thorin through who exactly is attending the meeting today. It turns out that Beorn has decided to join them, at Balin’s invitation, as a ‘mediator’, since he claims to be the only unbiased being in Erebor at the moment. He’s not far from the truth and Thorin is once again glad to see that the Shape-shifter is willing to get involved in the welfare of his kingdom. Apart from Beorn’s, Gandalf’s attendance has also been confirmed, as well as Bard’s, Dáin’s and, indisputably, Thranduil’s. The latter also mentioned that he would an advisor joining, while Dáin said he’d bring two of his lords to the meeting.

Thorin is not surprised to see Dwalin and Nori already at the sides of the great door leading to the Council Chambers, posing sombrely, weapons at their side. He’d supposed that the two of them would be more than happy to reassume their former positions as guards. They nod curtly when Thorin passes by them, Dwalin quickly opening the door in front of him.

He steps into the room with confidence, not being distracted by the screech of chair legs against the floor that can be heard in that moment. He’s been awaited, it seems. Just as Balin said, the other parties of the meeting are already seated at the massive, long marble table in the Chamber, one seat left unoccupied for him at one end of it. They do not sit down until he does so himself, as it is customary for a guest, no matter how high their position is, to do so when they’re at a King’s court.

The tension in the room is palpable. Thorin can easily tell that neither of the people present feel comfortable. He takes a moment for all of them to settle, while he quietly accounts the nine members of this council meeting.

To Thorin’s surprise, the advisor Thranduil announced he’d bring along is Tauriel, not his son, as he had assumed initially. The only female participant seems to be drawing unwarranted attention to herself on the account of her unusual hairstyle.

Two braids with a particular design, starting from her temples and tucked behind her ears, are resting upon her shoulders, each ending in gleaming silver beads. Judging by the looks Dáin is shooting her now across the table, he must’ve been mortified when he first saw her sporting the unmistakable Dwarven look. The two lords accompanying Dáin, Dwarves that Thorin has never seen before, seem just as disturbed by the uncommon sight. Balin, who has taken a seat at Thorin’s right side, leans in discreetly and answers Thorin’s unvoiced question, providing their names and status.

Thranduil, however, with his ever-present defying smirk, doesn’t look in the slightest bit bothered by the clear message his protégée’s braids convey. He even blatantly overlooks the aggressive, confused looks coming from Dáin’s side of the table.

Gandalf, Beorn, and Bard find themselves impartial to this quiet exchange, observing it with uneasy amusement. Out of them, Beorn is the only one who behaves in a relaxed way, seemingly uninfluenced by the obvious apprehension which has taken over the room, while Bard is laid back in his seat, arms crossed against his chest, frowning and looking as though his new position as the King of Dale brings him misery. Gandalf just gives Thorin a curious look when he prolongs the wait before the start of the meeting.

“Thank you all for answering to my call,” he finally begins, declaring the meeting open and putting an end to the heavy silence. “Some of you have come here to receive the gold you were promised, but that is not the only reason why we have gathered here today. The events of the past days have affected us all in different ways and I’m sure we all agree, seeing that you have responded to the invitation to this meeting, that we need to discuss and decide upon which course of action we want to follow next. I am aware that we will all support diverse interests, which is why reaching a consensus today will prove to be a challenge. But, it is a challenge that I trust we will be able to defeat. Shall we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess whose line I stole and gave to Óin! (Hint: he’s also a doctor who fusses over his friend, swears a lot and is sassy af--if any of you is a Trekkie, I hope the reference made you excited, cus there’s only a few days left until Star Trek Beyond aaahhhh)


	8. Fever

The door to the grand room in the Royal Quarters opens with a squeak, letting a fair-headed Dwarf in. Kíli, sitting on a wooden chair by Bilbo’s side, stifles a yawn and greets his brother tiredly.

“Are they still negotiating?”

“Yes, and I don’t think it’s going to stop anytime soon,” Fíli sighs, running a hand over his face, shoulders slumping. “Uncle is getting impatient. It’s the end of the second day of meetings already and they’re not even close to reaching common ground.”

The blond Dwarf closes the door quietly behind him, then takes off his fur coat and places it on the back of a chair hastily. “I don’t see why Uncle insisted on me joining their blasted meeting today. I barely uttered a word, it was a nightmare. I managed to leave earlier, but they’re still in session,” he complains, then he looks attentively at the tiny silhouette lying in the bed, obvious worry in his cerulean eyes. “How is he?” Fíli asks his brother quickly.

“Not a change since you left,” Kíli shakes his head with regret, his eyebrows furrowed in a tight frown. The younger brother shifts into his seat, careful with his sling, and straightens his back until a few muffled pops can be heard.

Fíli reaches out and grabs Bilbo’s smaller hand in his and gives it a small squeeze, checking the Hobbit’s temperature at the same time, then he crosses the room with slow steps and sits down in an armchair by the crackling fire. He places his head against the upper edge of the backrest and stares quietly at the ceiling, watching the shadows cast by the flames dance against the intricate silver veins running along the surface.

“What if Bilbo doesn’t ever wake up?” Kíli asks after a while, voice filled with concern and fear.

 “I don’t know, Kíli. But Uncle is getting truly stressed about it. Dáin jokingly asked him in front of the others today why he’s so grumpy and refused to partake in the feast last night to celebrate the victory, and Thorin practically spat out, and I quote,” Fíli stops to draw in a breath and changes his voice theatrically, to fit his Uncle’s. “‘I will not consider that wretched fight a victory worth rejoicing at, not until Bilbo Baggins is awake and well. The Halfling risked his life for my heir’s and mine and I will not rest, let alone _partake in feasts and celebrate_ until the debt I owe him is paid.’ End of quote. I must say that Dáin looked rather guilty afterwards and he apologised right away.”

Kíli huffs at the dramatic performance of his brother. “That does sound like Uncle Thorin. He needs to stop blaming himself for what happened to Bilbo,” he says, shaking his head. “So, obviously, now the whole council thinks of Bilbo as our beloved treasure that must be protected at any costs.”

“That’s quite right,” Fíli laughs. “Not that they thought of him differently before. Beorn and Gandalf, at least, were _this_ close to cooing at Thorin’s words. But truly, the fact that Uncle was not present last evening at the feast has started quite the rumour. I’d say it’s mostly Dáin’s fault for bringing it to everyone’s attention, but it’s not like he doesn’t have a point. Something must’ve happened between Uncle and Bilbo that has Uncle acting so strange. Well, I mean, yes, I can see why he refused to join us last night, but he should’ve at least stayed longer than to just say a few words at the beginning. It doesn’t make him look too good in the public eye.”

One of the points of yesterday’s meeting was organising a long overdue banquet to celebrate the battle’s outcome. Once yesterday’s council meeting was over, everyone hosted in Erebor and Dale, Elves, Dwarves and Men alike, gathered in the Great Hall. Despite the gloomy atmosphere at first, the ale and the good music managed to lift up the spirits considerably by the end of the evening. Thorin, however, was only present for a couple of minutes, to raise a glass and hold a short speech, as his position required him to do so. The feast continued on a merrier tone afterwards, everyone focusing on the good food, beverages and music and on sharing their stories of the battle. The evening had many memorable highlights as well: Tauriel was constantly harassed in regard to her new beads, only for Kíli have enough of it and invite her to countless dances, thus clarifying their involvement and leaving everyone’s mouth hanging open; Dwalin and Ori received many congratulations as well, the two of them joining the other couple for some dances despite Dwalin’s obvious clumsiness on the floor; Dáin and Glóin had a drinking contest and Dáin backed out of it once he realised he was losing, saying that he’d rather not be hangover the next day since he’s part of the council meeting; Beorn juggled with a few empty barrels, to the amusement of the attendees. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, apart from Thorin. Nobody had any idea where their leader had disappeared off to.

Kíli nods in agreement. “I think there’s something wrong too, Uncle hasn’t been himself, not since the Sickness. Do you think it has something to do with that?”

“I doubt it. Uncle decided to destroy the Arkenstone today,” Fíli provides.

“ _What?_ Is he serious? Is he allowed to do that?” Kíli blurts out in astonishment.

“The council didn’t really have any say in it. It’s his legacy, our family’s, not the council’s. Even Thranduil, the greedy bastard, agreed it was the best thing to do, even when his sly advisor suggested that the stone should be given to the Mirkwood Elves for ‘safekeeping’. Dáin protested against it, but Uncle didn’t listen to him. So, if Uncle was still affected by the Sickness, I don’t think he would even dream of destroying the Arkenstone. On the contrary, I think he’s more lucid than ever, from this point of view at least, defeating his pull to the Arkenstone and all.”

“All right,” Kíli says pensively, then frowns. “How is he going to destroy it?”

Fíli sighs, gets up and pours himself a cup of wine from the table, then returns to his seat while taking a sip.

“I don’t know. Balin thinks it would be best to try to throw it down from the top of the Mountain. Thorin himself will probably go and do it tomorrow,” the older brother says, leaning back in the armchair. “Bilbo was right all along, that cursed stone is the root of all evil. Our hobbit would be proud.”

“He would,” Kíli agrees, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Fíli focuses his attention on his brother, and he finally notices the stiffness in his brother’s spine and shoulders. He squints and tilts his head on one side questioningly. “Have you been on Hobbit-watch all day?”

“Yes, Hráim stopped by this morning and said Bilbo should start showing some signs of waking up by now, so I stayed here and well, watched. It’s not like I can do much with this arm,” Kíli admits, shrugging with indifference and pointing at his sling. “Tauriel was also stuck in the meeting all day,” he pouts. “I wish we could spend more time together, but no, Thranduil has to snatch her away from me,” he sighs, rolling his eyes.

Fíli snorts. “You just can’t keep your hands off each other, can you?”

Kíli just smirks expressively. “But, thankfully, this _awful_ injury spared me from spending the entire day with Uncle’s council, listening helplessly to Thranduil, Dáin and Uncle throw insults back and forth and fight over petty things with the pretence of discussing ‘the fate of Erebor and its neighbours.’”

By the time he finishes his sentence, Kíli’s voice is dripping with jolly sarcasm. “But wait, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Kíli finally tilts his head questioningly, almost innocently, the movement resembling one of a puppy’s.

“I’d love to wipe that smug grin off your pretty, _beardless_ face, brother o’ mine, but, certainly, it would not be a fair fight,” Fíli retorts, snarling at his brother with fake fierceness.

“Oi, who are you calling beardless, you—“

A thunderous swing of the door interrupts their brotherly banter. Thorin barges into the quarters, a murderous scowl etched on his face. His hands are balled up in tense fists at his sides.

The brothers throw each other a worried glance and gulp with nervousness almost simultaneously. However, a bit of Thorin’s obvious discontent seems to wash away when he sees his nephews and the unconscious Hobbit lying on the bed, and his expression softens slowly. He unclasps the brooch holding the royal blue mantle upon his shoulder and places the heavy piece of clothing above Fíli’s coat.

Kíli clears his throat and then asks on a conversational tone, “Good evening, Uncle. How was your day?”

“It was fine, Kíli, thank you for asking,” Thorin replies monotonously, on a tone not as harsh as Kíli expected. Obviously, Thorin’s day was not as good as he stated. “How is your arm?” he adds, nodding curtly towards his nephew’s sling.

“It’s getting better and it doesn’t hurt anymore. Hráim says I should keep on the sling for another couple of weeks or so, though,” Kíli replies quickly, eager to make conversation and ease the tension in the room.

The King nods again in approval, somewhat absently, and rolls up the sleeves of his tunic with dexterity. He reaches out to ruffle Kíli’s dark-coloured hair in a familiar way, as if it is routine. His attention is afterwards directed to Bilbo. As Fíli did before him, he takes Bilbo’s tiny hand in his much bigger one and clasps it gently. His thumb rubs against the back of the Hobbit’s hand, tracing the small knuckles. Then, he reaches out and softly brushes the pads of his fingers on the Hobbit’s cheek, checking his temperature. His fingers twitch almost imperceptibly, then lean into the touch as they meet feverish skin. He moves them to Bilbo’s forehead smoothly, pushing back the lifeless honey curls. His palm hovers above Bilbo’s forehead, feeling the irradiating heat.

“How long has he been burning up?” Thorin turns around to ask impatiently.

Fíli gets up in a hurry from the armchair, almost tripping over his feet. He approaches Bilbo’s bed to make sure of the change himself. “I checked his temperature when I came back from the Council Chambers and he was cold then… I don’t know when that happened—“

“Go get Óin or whoever healer is still awake, be it Dwarf or Elf. Hurry.”

Alarmed by the situation and feeling guilty for not noticing before, Fíli quickly exits the quarters in search for a medic. Kíli stands up and tries to help with his good hand, by with soaking a piece of cloth into cold water from the sink and placing it on Bilbo’s forehead.

Thorin starts to pace around the room, arms folded firmly against his chest. He throws worried glances towards Bilbo once every few seconds, as if he expects some kind of sign from him. The feverish period of Bilbo’s slow recovery should be over by now; it’s unusual for a strong fever to overtake him in such a way at this time.

By the time Fíli returns, Óin following closely and fuming, Thorin already feels like he’s losing his mind. Óin barks questions and orders left and right, but Thorin’s ears barely catch the old Dwarf’s sharp voice. He resumes his usual place, kneeling by Bilbo’s bed and taking the Hobbit’s now burning hand into his very own, bringing it to his lips. His eyes trace Bilbo’s face almost desperately, his eyebrows furrowed, showing just how conflicted he feels.

Fíli leaves the room again at Óin’s request, to fetch one of the Elf healers that offered their aid in the management of the Infirmary, while Óin opens Bilbo’s bandages to check for signs of infection that could have provoked the fever. Instead of losing his cool, like Óin and Thorin have, Kíli just watches the scene with interest and concern, not overlooking his uncle’s reaction.

The young Dwarf cannot draw a certain conclusion just yet, because the Elf’s arrival makes Óin kick him out of the room, along with his brother and uncle, but he notices the difficulty Óin encounters in removing Thorin from Bilbo’s side.

“Come on, Uncle,” Fíli says, placing his hand on Thorin’s elbow and tugging lightly, “let them do their jobs. I’m sure it’s nothing and that Bilbo isn’t in any danger.”

Thorin hesitates at first, refusing to put distance between him and Bilbo and to close the door that would seal the Hobbit away from him, but has no choice but to oblige. Once he hears the click of the door’s lock, meaning that Óin won’t let anyone in anytime soon, he lets himself be guided by his nephews towards his chamber.

He doesn’t utter a single word as he sits on his bed, elbows on his knees, head clutched in his hands. His hair falls forward from his shoulders, concealing his face from the young Dwarves watching him. The brothers choose to linger in their uncle’s room, taking seats at the table, instead of leaving him by himself.

Fíli’s theory that something happened between Bilbo and Thorin is beginning to look more like a certainty rather than a simple guess, Kíli thinks, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Is their uncle feeling _that_ guilty for Bilbo’s wounds? Nobody really knows what happened on Ravenhill, but Kíli can only guess that Bilbo saved Thorin’s life by willingly sacrificing himself, in spite of the way Thorin had behaved earlier that day. But something doesn’t quite add up. The friendship that has blossomed between his uncle and the Hobbit since the start of their journey is indeed strong and somewhat intimate, but Kíli can’t see it being the only reason that’s got Thorin so affected by all of this. While Thorin has always let his heart affect his rational thinking, he’s always kept a cold, emotionless demeanour, which is now crumbling right in front of their eyes. Did Bilbo say something to Thorin before losing consciousness? Did Thorin not get the chance to say whatever he’s obviously been wanting to say? Kíli can only imagine Thorin must’ve wanted to apologise for what he’s done, for failing Bilbo. But still, this cannot be all.

He looks at his uncle, at how he ducks his head, hiding his face behind his hair, nails scraping against his scalp in what seems to be frustration and uneasiness. Thorin is barely holding himself together, and Kíli can’t really see the reason behind that. He’s been looking at this from every point of view possible, so what is he missing here?

Bilbo is his friend as well, and he cares about the Hobbit a lot, as do the other members of the Company. They’ve all been shaken by what has happened to Bilbo, but none of them as much as their leader. And this backs up Kíli’s suspicions even more. Something isn’t right, and it’s worrying him.

He tries to recount every piece of evidence that proves that something is amiss. When else did his uncle act strange? At the feast, Thorin didn’t stay, supposedly because of Bilbo. At the council meeting, he responded aggressively to Dáin’s jokes, as Fíli says, because of Bilbo again. At breakfast two days ago, Thorin grew extremely tense because Dáin mentioned his One…

Thorin’s ‘nowhere-to-be-seen’ One.

Wait…

Kíli’s eyes go as wide as saucers. He brings his unharmed hand to his face, covering his mouth and nose and stifling a gasp. Fíli raises a questioning eyebrow at the sudden display of surprise, but Kíli doesn’t even notice. He’s shaking his head. This can’t be true.

And yet, it feels obvious now. Expected, even. How come he didn’t see it before? He’s found his One and he’s acquainted with the torment that comes with the discovery, especially when one knows that their bond might not be welcomed by the other party in question.

When did it happen? Has Thorin known all along? Does _Bilbo_ know? His thoughts overwhelm him with an endless string of unanswerable questions.

Just as the shock starts to wear off, another thing hits him. The beads. Thorin gave Kíli the very beads that were meant for his uncle’s One. For Bilbo. _Thorin’s given up_. Kíli’s eyes start to water.

“Hey, Kee, what’s wrong?” Fíli asks, watching in confusion as his brother’s expression continues to shift drastically every few seconds.

Kíli just tightens his palm over the lower side of his face and shakes his head even harder, eyes never leaving his uncle’s frame, who is still hunched over in misery. As Kíli fails to answer, Thorin slowly brings his head back up, Fíli’s question making him curious as to what is happening.

When he meets his younger nephew’s teary brown eyes, it merely takes Thorin a couple of seconds to realise what Kíli knows. He stands up in a hurry, not really sure what to do next.

“Kíli, whatever you think you know—”

Kíli stands up as well, much more quickly, and is by his uncle’s side in two large steps. The next thing Thorin knows is that he’s enveloped in the tightest embrace he’s ever received. Kíli sniffles against his shoulder, muttering something Thorin can’t understand. The King is taken by surprise, feeling completely at a loss. When Kíli lets go, Thorin expects to be assaulted with questions, but the young Dwarf just looks at him with the saddest doe-like eyes.

Instead of voicing the array of questions that are on his mind, Kíli just grabs his confused brother by the sleeve and drags him out of the room, mumbling something along the lines of ‘let’s leave Uncle be, Fee, he needs to rest’.

As the door closes behind the two Dwarves, Thorin presses his knuckles against his eyes, realising just how exhausted he is. Did this just happen? He’s being sloppy and obvious. If Kíli figured it out, surely the others can as well. He’s not sure why he doesn’t want anyone else to know. Maybe it’s because of the shame he’s feeling. He’s not worthy of Bilbo, not after all he’s done, and if his friends and his soon-to-be subjects relate the wrong he’s done to Bilbo, to the bond between them, nobody will ever hold him in high regard again.

He just hopes that Kíli (and consequently, Fíli) will keep quiet and won’t misunderstand him. He’ll have to explain everything to them tomorrow. He lies down on the bed, not even bothering to change into nightclothes. He knows that he won’t possibly be able to sleep, not while Bilbo isn’t alright, but he closes his eyes and thinks of his One, praying to his Maker to bring Bilbo back to him.

 

~*~

 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the corridor, Kíli refuses to reveal his newly-discovered information to his brother.

“Durin be damned, Kíli, just tell me what happened in there!”

Fíli had crashed on Kíli’s bed, right next to him, invading his brother’s personal space.

“I can’t, listen, you’ve got to figure it out yourself, alright?” Kíli replies in frustration, trying to pull the blanket from under his brother’s weight, wanting nothing more than just to warm up in his bed and ponder over his findings quietly. He has _so_ many questions, and he knows it wouldn’t be pertinent to try to find answers to them.

“Why can’t you? Seriously, this is the weirdest thing that’s happened all week, and believe me, _a lot_ of weird things have happened this week. Come on, Kíli, tell me already!” Fíli’s voice comes close to a shout.

“Mahal, keep it down, Fee, Uncle is trying to rest and Óin and that Elf are with Bilbo,” Kíli whispers harshly.

Fíli huffs and looks at him expectantly, raising an eyebrow at Kíli’s poor attempt at recovering his blanket using only his uninjured hand. The brunet stops pulling helplessly at the cover and sighs deeply.

It’s not Kíli’s place to tell him. He’s pretty sure he’s not even supposed to know himself. Thorin went pale in just a few seconds when he realised Kíli knows, so he surely doesn’t want other people to know as well. It’s his uncle’s personal affair and Kíli won’t betray his uncle by telling another soul, not even when the soul in question is his dear brother.

No, he can’t tell. ‘Helping’ Fee come to a conclusion on his own, however, is a different matter entirely.

“Fine. Listen very carefully. I won’t tell you what I know, I can’t do that because it’s not something I can share. Just… just think about how Uncle has been behaving lately, alright? It’s not that hard.”

Fíli is quiet and still for a second and Kíli thinks he’s finally got rid of him. How wrong of Kíli to think that. Funnily enough, people have always perceived Fíli as being the more intuitive one out of the two of them. It seems that they were wrong, too.

“What in Durin’s name is that supposed to mean?” the blond swears, furrowing his eyebrows and deepening his frown.

“Ugh, get off my bed, you dratted donkey!” Kíli snaps in irritation at his brother’s narrow-mindedness, at the same time being careful not to raise his voice too much.

He loves his brother, but Fíli should just _understand_ that this is not simple gossip. Why does he have to be so infuriating? It’s not like Kíli doesn’t want him to know…

“Not until you tell me what that was all about!” Fíli snaps right back, more curious than ever.

Kíli grunts and tries to kick his brother off the bed, failing miserably. “No, I already told you I can’t! _Now. Get. Off. My. Bed_.” He accompanies every word with a kick in his brother’s side.

“Kíli…” Fíli’s voice gains a dangerous drawl.

“What part of _‘no’_ do you find so difficult to grasp?” Kíli snarls, unimpressed by Fíli’s threatening tone.

Fíli is about to spit out a mean reply, when the door to their room opens without any warning, interrupting their fight, just as it happened less than an hour ago in Bilbo’s room. But it’s not Thorin intruding, but Tauriel, a seemingly pissed off Tauriel.

“What are you two numskulls doing? Your bickering can be heard all the way from the gates! There are people trying to sleep in this Mountain!”

Kíli hops off his bed in a hurry, forgetting everything, blanket and all, to greet her with an endearing kiss on her cheek. The obvious height difference doesn’t seem to matter to any of them and Tauriel’s mood lightens visibly.

“Well, you do have superior hearing, _amrâlimê_ ,” Kíli says, smiling at her. “We’re sorry, but I just found out something about Uncle by mistake and Fíli refuses to understand that it’s not something I can share.”

 “So you’ve finally figured it out too, eh?” Tauriel asks with a knowing smile on her face.

“Figured out what?” Fíli is quick to ask, slyly hoping that he’d at least convince Tauriel to tell him, if not his brother.

“Not my place to tell,” she says, shrugging. Fíli groans loudly.

“You knew this whole time?!” Kíli bursts out, taken by surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Tauriel just shoots him a disbelieving look, wordlessly asking him, ‘ _really, Kíli?_ ’ The brunet opens his mouth, but quickly closes it, realising his own silliness.

“Never mind,” he says enthusiastically, “now I have someone to discuss it with! Tauriel, my love, would you join me for a late night walk?”

He doesn’t even wait for her reply before grabbing his coat and slipping it on. Tauriel rolls her eyes at the over-romantic proposal, but joins her hand with his when he holds it out, letting herself be dragged out of the room.

“Wait, what about—?” Fíli stumbles out of Kíli’s bed, trying to catch up with them and obtain the answer he’s been trying so hard to get.

“Just think about Uncle, alright? And his behaviour. And Bilbo. You’re bound to figure it out!” Kíli whispers, turning around to stick his head through the doorway, before leaving with his One.

Fíli sighs. He’s still for a few seconds, trying to piece together what he’s witnessed the past few days. But he fails to see what’s making both his brother and uncle act so strangely, and he gives up, retreating to his own side of the room and hoping to get some rest. He blows out the candles and climbs in his own bed, knowing his brother will probably spend the night in Tauriel’s room, since both of them love late night talks, walks and whatnot. He also tries not to think of the mushy couple stuff they must be doing.

‘ _Yuck_ ,’ he thinks. He pulls the covers closer to him, cursing the winter that approaches. It’s getting colder and colder every day, and he’s not used to it. Growing up in the Blue Mountains meant never truly experiencing a harsh winter. It has snowed heavily the past few days, and neither he nor Kíli have got used to seeing the thick layer of snow everyday yet, just as how they haven’t got used to the constant chill in the air, for that matter. He looks at the dying fire in the fireplace and moans as he watches the useless coals flicker dimly. As tired as he is, there is no force in Middle Earth that would convince him right now to get out of bed to rekindle them.

He keeps on turning restlessly under the blanket, bothered by the healing scab on his back, until he finally finds a somewhat comfortable position. He’s on the verge of falling asleep when the door opens again. He lifts himself up on his elbows and squints at the intrusion of light, feeling somewhat uneasy.

His uneasiness is amplified when he sees that Óin is the one interrupting his rest. ‘ _Bilbo. Is Bilbo—?_ ’ he thinks, panicking. Óin just frowns at him, but not in a way that is meant to give Fíli bad news. “Where’s yer brother, lad?” he asks, his voice slurred by obvious tiredness.

“Out. With Tauriel. What’s happened? Is Bilbo alright?”

“Aye, he’s fine,” Óin says, closing the door behind him and holding up the candle he has with him, to lighten the room better. “The Elf brought his fever down. I still don’t know why his temperature got so high. It shouldn’t be long ‘til he awakens now, the worst has passed.”

Fíli nods, relieved to hear this, and not something far worse. “Have you told Uncle? He’s been worrying himself out of his mind.”

“No, he was asleep, I didn’t want to wake him up.”

Fíli nods again, and the silence that follows the brief exchange is taken by Óin as his cue to let the Prince get some sleep. Fíli thanks him for delivering the news and bids him goodnight in a tired voice, then watches him leave with heavy-lidded eyes. He’s asleep in a matter of seconds afterwards.

He doesn’t wake up in the dead of the night, hours later, when a startling sound, of metal crashing on stone, can be heard echoing through the halls of the Royal Wing.

Unlike Fíli however, a room away, Thorin is violently awoken from his nightmares and jolts out of bed, alarmed by the sharp noise. He almost thinks his ears betrayed him, but he can swear that the sound came from Bilbo’s room.


	9. Bright Horizons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter is not beta-read! This might be flooded with non-native speaker mistakes I'm 100% responsible for T_T  
> I hope this is what you guys were expecting, though *wink*  
> Also, this is the largest chapter so far woop woop *hopefully the 5.7k words of angst and fluff will make it up for the delay*  
> Enjoy!!

At first, Thorin wonders if his nightmare is the reason he woke up. Is there any chance that the sharp sound he just heard was another figment of his imagination? However it may be, he’s quick to dismiss that possibility. He was so alarmed, even, that the first thing that he did the second his eyes opened was to grab his sword, which was lying dutifully on the opposing side of his bed, and unsheathe it. He doesn’t drop it, not even after his senses don’t pick up any nearby threats.

He cannot help but let his actions be influenced by instinct, so he heads right for Bilbo’s room, sword in hand and at the ready, without stopping for a second to consider other options. He opens the door as quietly as he can, trying to keep the element of surprise in his favour in case of an intruder. What he’s met with, however, isn’t a person wandering in his One’s room well after midnight.

The first thing he notices is that the room is suspiciously deprived of any source of light. Since Bilbo’s chamber doesn’t have a window, the space is surrounded in dense darkness. He frowns, because he’s always been careful to leave candles burning in the room, those special Dwarf-engineered type that burn much longer than most and are not a fire hazard.

Then, in the poor light cast by the torches hung on the corridors, and out of the shadow of the door he’s pushing back, he sees the liquid hot wax of the candles starting to cool, solidifying on the stone floor, flowing out slowly out of their metal holder. So that was the noise that woke him up.

But that candle holder was on Bilbo’s nightstand. What could’ve possibly caused the metal support to fall on the floor? He raises his head, stepping out of the shadow and into the room, not before detaching one of the torches from the hallway and bringing it with him inside.

The sight that greets him, though, almost makes him drop both his sword and the torch.

“T-Thorin?”

That rough, weak voice, a voice he’s prayed so much to hear again, makes his heart skip a beat. He finally drops his sword, no longer having any need for it, and he’s by the bed and on his knees in two steps and a fraction of a second, lowering down the torch and letting it burn on the stone floor.

“Water,” Bilbo rasps with difficulty, his hand reaching out weakly in the direction of the decanter on the nightstand. Thorin deducts, as he almost spills the contents of the vessel while pouring it in a glass in a hurry and handing it to the thirsty Hobbit, that Bilbo’s attempt to reach for water himself had failed and woke him up instead.

He has to support Bilbo’s glass while he gulps the water greedily. Droplets of water drip down Bilbo’s chin wastefully and Thorin wishes to reach out and wipe them away. When he’s finished, Thorin puts the glass away and gets up momentarily to use the torch to rekindle the dead embers in the fireplace and to then to hang it on the wall, lighting the room better. He finds that he’s been holding his breath ever since he jumped out of bed, and when he finally lets his lungs relax, it’s like centuries’ worth of worry, not days’, have just been exhaled.

While all can Thorin do is look at the Hobbit like he’s a marvel, with a mixture of emotions painting his face, Bilbo takes in his surroundings and frowns in confusion.

“What happened? Did we win?” Bilbo’s voice is still shaky, but it has thankfully regained some of its vigour.

“We won, of course we won. Everyone’s alive, out of danger’s way. Azog is dead, and we’re all safe,” Thorin assures him, adopting a comforting tone he didn’t know he was capable of using.

Bilbo looks relieved, a part of his confusion vanishing. His glossy eyes roam over the room slowly, before they focus on Thorin. There is still panic and uncertainty in them and Thorin shivers. He feels compelled to say something, anything, to make those emotions wash away.

“You’ve been badly hurt, Bilbo, you had m—us so very worried. You’re in Erebor now, you’ve been asleep for almost a week… I’m… glad that you’ve woken. How are you feeling? Are you in pain? I should fetch Óin…” Thorin finds himself uncharacteristically babbling and struggling to find his words, before eventually making a fool out of himself.

His blood boils in embarrassment, and his determination to make sure the Hobbit is out of danger’s way gives him both the motivation and the excuse to make for the door. He’s set on escaping those glossy eyes that watch him, and guises his need to flee by thinking that Óin should be announced of the change in Bilbo’s recovery. He is forced to stop, nevertheless, when he hears Bilbo’s voice, stronger and more alert than he would have expected:

“No, wait—I’m alright, don’t go.”

So Thorin turns on his heels, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers, ready to kneel again by Bilbo’s bed. He pauses, noticing that Bilbo is shaking. He frowns instantly. “You’re cold,” he grunts and starts rummaging through the contents of the room’s pieces of furniture in search for an extra blanket. He finds one quickly and lies it over Bilbo, covering the Hobbit under a third layer of blankets. He tucks him as best as he can, and Bilbo can only smile faintly, comforted by the newfound warmth.

Bilbo flinches in pain, however, as he tries to raise himself up on his elbows. Thorin freezes, ceasing his attempt at making Bilbo as comfortable as possible. “You _are_ in pain. I’m getting Óin,” he says with finality. Bilbo is fast to remove his hand from under the blankets and grab his, in an attempt to stop him from leaving.

“I’m fine, really, it was just a bad move,” Bilbo assures him. “Thank you,” he adds, referring to the blanket, but he doesn’t truly ease Thorin’s worry. The Dwarf finds some comfort in the fact that he notices that Bilbo’s hand is warm, and not in a feverish way, before Bilbo lets go seconds later.

Even though Bilbo is awake and lucid, he definitely doesn’t look like he’s close to a full recovery. He’s still pale and sickly, thinner than ever; his eyes don’t have that lively glow and his curls are matted and lifeless. But Thorin can’t be compelled to leave his side now to fetch Óin, not when Bilbo asked him to stay.

Even though he was just covered seconds before, Bilbo removes his blankets carefully, rolling them down to his waist, and Thorin doesn’t make any move to stop him. He lifts his tunic, only to uncover his bandages. He removes them as well, slowly, as though he doesn’t trust his hands yet. Thorin looks away, biting the inside of his cheek, at the sight of the mending wound. The puncture mark, closed by eight stitches, is half the size of his palm, angry and deep. It’s going to leave an ugly scar, Thorin can tell, but at least it’s healing fast. Bilbo looks at it for a long time, motionless and expressionless.

“It was my fault…I failed get to you in time and you almost _died_ , Bilbo—I’m so—” Thorin can barely say, nails buried deep into his enclosed palms.

“What?” Bilbo looks away from his wound, and rests his eyes on him instead, disbelief on his pale face. “No—Thorin, it’s not your fault. He would’ve killed you and I couldn’t let that happen. It was my fault, really. Don’t blame yourself for it.”

Thorin just shakes his head, Bilbo’s eyes on him making him uneasy again. “We’ll talk about it another time, now you need to rest.”

He already dreads that moment, but clearly Bilbo isn’t thinking straight right now and it was wrong to think otherwise. He refuses to let his guilt wash away just because Bilbo blindly attempted to ease it out of the kindness of his pure heart. He can’t do that, not when he saw Bilbo look at his wound in that way.

The Hobbit frowns, but he gives in to the weakness and admits he needs the rest by simply nodding tiredly.

“I’ll send Óin in the morning to check up on you now that you’re finally awake,” Thorin adds before Bilbo can say anything else.

He turns on his heels again, but Bilbo’s hand reaches out and grasps his once more. “Stay with me? Please?”

And Thorin simply can’t resist that soft, hoarse voice. He bites the inside of his cheek again, aggravating the small wound he’s caused himself over the past few days because of the bad habit. He feels the soulbond thrum somewhere inside his chest. His One is awake and calls for him, wants him close. Does the bond have anything to do with Bilbo asking him to stay? Can Bilbo feel it? Thorin doesn’t think he wants to know the truth, he’s just content to hear that he’s welcome near Bilbo.

So, he nods and reluctantly lets go of Bilbo’s hand, not before giving it a warm, reassuring squeeze. Becoming reacquainted with that horrid armchair he’s spent most of his time in lately is not something he looks forward to, but he accepts the terms of his stay and drags the piece of furniture as close as possible to Bilbo’s bed.

Bilbo struggles with closing his bandages, but his hands are too weak. When Thorin is done rearranging the furniture to his liking, Bilbo looks up at him. “Help me?” he asks in a pleading whisper.

Thorin almost stumbles in his hurry to offer a hand. His fingers tremble imperceptibly, hovering for a few seconds above Bilbo’s stomach, unsure of how to proceed. He’s careful not to touch the tender wound and mentally thanks Óin for not bandaging Bilbo with one of those interminable rolls of gauze that go around the waist several times. He couldn’t have handled that. He can barely handle the brief brushes of skin against skin as his fingers reposition the fabric that Bilbo removed earlier.

Bilbo winces at some point, when Thorin accidentally brushes the bandage right across the sutures. The Dwarf inhales sharply, ceasing all movement and guiltily quivering his lip. He panics slightly, thinking he’s hurt Bilbo, but the Hobbit just smiles feebly, looking Thorin in the eye and wordlessly telling him, _it’s alright, you didn’t hurt me, I_ trust _you_.

Thorin’s heart almost breaks right then and there. He goes on, this time more slowly, and pulls carefully at the sticky edges of the bandage that adhere to Bilbo’s skin, covering the wound once again. The stitches should be removed soon, he estimates, before completely hiding the puncture mark from both of their sights.

“Thank you,” Bilbo rasps, when Thorin is done and pulls the blankets to his neck again, tucking him in again, with the utmost care. His eyes are closed and his breathing is slow, a sign that the tiredness is finally catching up with him.

Thorin takes his seat in the armchair he dragged to Bilbo’s right side, prepared to stay up until morning and keep guard. He remembers that tomorrow is the third day of negotiations, which means he should rest well, and he mentally groans. His eyes linger on the blanket-covered tiny body and he knows he’s making the right choice. No matter what his needs are, Bilbo is more important right now, and he’s got a feeling that this is how he’s going to prioritise everything from now on.

He thinks Bilbo has fallen asleep, but the Hobbit opens his eyes for a second and slowly get his right hand out from under the blankets, letting it rest tentatively on the edge of the bed, merely inches away from where Thorin’s own hand grips the armrest of the chair. Bilbo’s fingers uncurl, letting his palm exposed in a silent, not so subtle invitation.

Their eyes lock again and Thorin doesn’t know what to make of the warmth in Bilbo’s expression. The bond makes his chest tingle pleasantly and he’s overwhelmed by the wave of affection rushing over him. He’s never thought he could love someone so much.

He joins his hand with Bilbo’s, breaking eye contact to watch their fingers entwine, settling into a comfortable hold. He rubs his thumb on the back of Bilbo’s thumb, drawing the smallest of patterns, only to have the Hobbit respond by tightening his grip and brushing the pads of his fingers against Thorin’s knuckles.

Bilbo can’t fight the smile that’s tugging at the corners of his lips and he closes his eyes, letting sleep take over him. Thorin can _feel_ some of the cracks in the bond mend smoothly, almost as if they were never even there. Wetness prickles at the corners of his eyes and he can’t help but smile as well, brighter than he ever remembers smiling.

He allows himself to hope, against his better judgement. He hopes all of the cracks will be mended someday. He hopes the guilt will wash away, the scars will fade and the nightmares will stop. He hopes for forgiveness, for a future, for happiness, knowing he might not get a chance to feel this kind of hope again.

Leaving in the morning is one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do. Bilbo sighed in his sleep when he disentangled their fingers slowly, making him mourn the loss of the petite hand in his. He picks up his sword and tends to the dying fire once more, warming up the room. Before he leaves, he presses a light kiss on Bilbo’s forehead, whispering that he’ll return in the evening. As he descends the staircase leading down to the other galleries of Erebor, he realises he can’t remember the last time he’s felt so happy. He thinks it’s foolish of him to feel such happiness, when he’s actually crippled by insecurity and guilt. But he allows himself to revel in the fact that Bilbo’s finally awake.

He stops by the Infirmary, looking for Óin. The older Dwarf had fallen asleep in a chair in a secluded corner of the room, in a position that looks really uncomfortable. Thorin hates to wake him up, seeing that he’s finally catching some sleep, but he knows that Óin has to see Bilbo. Besides, Óin’s neck and spine will probably be grateful if he were to wake the Dwarf up.

After he’s done explaining to Óin the events of last night, adapting the story so Óin doesn’t suspect anything, the Dwarf rushes up the stairs enthusiastically to poke and prod at the poor Hobbit. He doesn’t even complain about being woken up, and Thorin is left all alone in the Infirmary.

A brief smile brings light to his features as he thinks of how Óin will proceed with his check-up, but it fades once he realises where he’s actually standing. He hasn’t set foot in the Infirmary since Erebor’s been reclaimed. Seeing the injured and the commotion that hasn’t died yet, even though almost a week has passed since the battle, overwhelms him. He should’ve visited this place days ago.

Some of the healers and their help recognise him and interrupt their work to greet him solemnly, but apart from that his presence goes unnoticed. He hates to disrupt their duties, but he asks around, learning details that weren’t mentioned in the reports he spent so much time studying. He follows them around, observing the grievous injuries they tend to and showing genuine interest in the patients’ recovery. They’re kind and respectful enough to answer their King’s inquiries, and some of them even thank him for stopping by. Thorin feels incredibly guilty for not showing up earlier. He spends the reminder of the morning there, only leaving when he realises he’s extremely late for breakfast.

For the first time since that dreadful breakfast three mornings ago, he joins the others again for a meal, finally feeling capable of facing the others and dealing with social interaction without the need to put on a mask. The Company and the members of the Post-War Council, as they’ve decided to name it, welcome him warmly, even though he shows up right in the middle of their meal.

To his surprise, out of his nephews, only Kíli is at breakfast. Fíli’s absence makes him frown, knowing that he’d have to reprimand his nephew later for his lack of punctuality. It wouldn’t have upset him, since the breakfast isn’t a formal affair, but Fíli is expected at the Council and it’s only respectful that he joins the other members at the meal. He puts aside the matter and turns his attention to his companions at the table, easily making himself a way in the conversations.

When they’re done, he leads the party in the Council Chambers with a newfound determination to make this the last day they need to end the affairs. He settles in his seat, waiting for the others to do the same. While his mind focuses on the upcoming meeting, perhaps better than in the previous days, his heart tugs lightly, telling him he’s needed somewhere else.

 

~*~

 

Fíli wakes up with a groan, instantly wishing he didn’t have to get out of bed. He buries his head under the blankets, wondering why exactly is his Uncle set on forcing him to attend those impossible meetings. It’s pure torture!

While he’s well aware of his new status as the Heir Under the Mountain and the duties that unfortunately come along with it, he fails to see the purpose of his presence there. It’s not like he actually has a say in what everyone keeps fighting about. Thranduil makes all kinds of demands and Dáin rolls his eyes and laughs mockingly at him. Thorin tries to mediate and keep the peace, but shouting ensues anyway and his Uncle just ends up with his head in his hands and sighing. Gandalf laughs into his beard, Bard and Beorn just look constantly confused. That’s literally everything that ever happens.

It’s clearly going nowhere. They’ve barely decided upon splitting the treasure between the Company, Bard and Thranduil. It was truly a struggle, because Dáin was out of the sudden asking for a part of it too, and Thorin had no choice but to humour him, since he can’t risk losing his cousin’s favour. Then they started drawing up contracts and treaties, and Fíli felt completely out of place, useless and more confused than ever.

At least he’s not the only one. He often found himself exchanging looks with Bard, who’s easily the most reasonable person present at the table. During the short breaks yesterday, he and Bard have bonded over jokes related to the meeting and he’s glad to have found a friend in the Man. It’s helping him see this whole ordeal from a more amusing point of view.

Fíli’s upbringing didn’t have much to do with the process of grooming an heir to a kingdom and this means that he has a lot to learn in a very short time. He’s willing to learn and to grow from this perspective, but it feels like he’s assuming too much responsibility overnight. He’ll get accustomed to it eventually, but those meetings are sucking the life out of him. And yes, he’s behaving like a whiny Dwarfling right now, but he’s entitled to it. He’s not even a proper adult yet and surely everyone else present at those meetings _must_ despise them as well.

Getting out of bed and disentangling himself from the warm cocoon of blankets is difficult enough, and he groans again, thinking that this isn’t even the hardest part of his day. But all thoughts regarding his duties are discarded when he remembers the events of last evening.

He completes his morning routine faster than he usually does, almost forgetting to brush and braid his hair. His worry for the smallest member of the Company serves as compelling motivation to rush out the door, shrugging on his coat on the way.

Unconsciously impersonating his Uncle by not bothering to knock and barging in unannounced, Fíli isn’t remotely surprised to see Óin already attending to Bilbo at this ungodly hour. The healer’s back is at the door, unintentionally shielding Bilbo’s upper body from Fíli’s eyes, and due to his hearing problem he barely notices the Prince’s arrival.

“Óin, how’s he doing?”

“Ah, ‘morning to you too, lad,” Óin says, barely turning his head towards Fíli. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” he continues and steps aside, grinning.

The sight of an awake, smiling Hobbit greets him and Fíli is rendered speechless. He certainly did not expect this.

“Fíli! It’s so good to see you!” Bilbo exclaims happily, raising himself up on his elbows.

“Wha—how? When?” the young Dwarf stammers, taken aback by the reveal. “Durin’s beard, you had us all so worried!” he says shakily, almost laughing.

Bilbo chuckles, saying that he woke up during the night, and Fíli is relieved to see that the Hobbit is in much better condition compared to last evening. He looks at the Hobbit with joy in his eyes and closes the distance between them to ruffle Bilbo’s curls, laughing, as he had often done when they were on the road.

“How are you feeling?” the Prince asks on a more serious tone.

“I’ve been better,” Bilbo says jokingly. “Those stitches are driving me _insane_. I don’t think I’ve ever had a more annoying itch!”

Fíli squints and raises an eyebrow in suspicion, then looks at Óin for confirmation. The older Dwarf rolls his eyes and shakes his head, even though he’s supressing a smile.

“He’s been jittery all morning, the little rascal. If he can get past the next few days of bed confinement—which are not negotiable, Bilbo, don’t even try—he’ll be alright. I’ll even remove the stitches in two days or so, if he behaves,” Óin says humorously, pulling Bilbo’s tunic back in place and covering the wound, as he’s done with examining it.

Bilbo is left pouting at the news of his bed confinement. “But I feel fine, Óin, honestly!”

The healer huffs before straightening his back and adopting a more imposing attitude. “Lad, you’ve been in a coma for almost five days. It’s up to me to decide if you feel fine or no.”

Fíli watches how Bilbo deflates like a ruptured waterskin, and tries not to laugh. Óin leaves the room, mumbling something about how he’s going to bring Bilbo some solid food, leaving the two of them alone.

Once Bilbo recovers, he focuses his attention on the blond and regains his smile. “Sit down, Fíli, you’re towering over me.”

“Don’t I always?” Fíli asks with a smirk plastered on his face, remembering how the height difference has always bothered Bilbo.

Bilbo clicks his tongue and shakes his head, pretending to be offended by Fíli’s reply when he’s in fact amused by it. Nevertheless, the Prince complies, occupying an armchair that was weirdly positioned close to Bilbo’s bed. The Hobbit looks at him for a few seconds, before speaking up.

“How are you, Fíli? Did you get hurt during the battle?” Bilbo asks, scrutinising Fíli’s body for signs of injury.

“Nay, just an ugly scratch on my back. Kee was worse though. His wrist got mangled up pretty badly.  But thanks to his sweetheart, both of us are fine now. I don’t think Óin could’ve saved his wrist if it weren’t for her. She closed my wound too. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be out of bed right now either.”

“Glad to hear you’re both alright. Are Kíli and Tauriel together now?”

Fíli laughs at lively curiosity in Bilbo’s voice. “Aye, more than that, even. He’s braided our family’s beads in her hair already.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows jump into his hairline, knowing what that means to a Dwarf. “Really, is that so? I’m so happy for them! I wish I could’ve been there to see it happen,” he laughs, clearly overjoyed by the news.

The blond joins in, happy to see the Hobbit laugh. But he senses that something is wrong once the laughter dies and silence settles between them once more. Something is plaguing Bilbo and Fíli can’t quite put his finger on it. The unexpected change in the mood is obviously supporting his theory.

“Have I really been sleeping for five days?” Bilbo asks quietly.

“Aye, I think so,” Fíli says, feeling somewhat sad. “I’m really sorry.”

Bilbo snorts bitterly. “What for? Don’t be, it wasn’t your fault.”

 _No, we were all at fault, for not protecting you like you protected us_ , Fíli thinks. But he says nothing. More seconds pass in silence.

“It was so weird, waking up in here. Alone, in a cold and unfamiliar room made of stone. I expected to wake up on the battlefield, or in the afterlife. Yavanna, or even back in my bed in Bag End,” the Hobbit says suddenly, a certain degree of sullenness in his voice.

“Don’t say that,” Fíli hisses. The thought of a Bilbo who’s never joined their cause is wrong, but not as wrong as the one of a broken Bilbo lying motionless on the battlefield. He shivers, horrified by the picture. “Mahal, Bilbo, you have no idea how bad you were. We all thought you were going to die,” he whispers, almost afraid to acknowledge the Company’s unvoiced fears at that time.

Bilbo frowns angrily, looking as though he doesn’t comprehend how serious the situation was. “But I’m almost healed! I feel sore and tired, yes, but that’s because I’ve just woken up. It’s not uncommon for Hobbits to fall into a deep sleep when we’re ill, it’s how we heal. I can’t see what all this fuss is about! If it really was that bad, then how come I’m recovering so well?”

“Bilbo. It took Óin an entire night to stop your bleeding and to stitch you up. Then two of Thranduil’s Elves, _along with Thranduil himself_ , spent _hours_ pulling you back from the brink of death,” Fíli deadpans.

“You’re joking,” Bilbo utters, refusing to believe what he hears. “That’s ridiculous, why would Thranduil do that, I mean I’m just a Hobbit, the Hobbit who broke into his dungeons and—”

Fíli sets his jaw, gritting his teeth, and interrupts him, “Thorin brought him here to save you.”

“ _Thorin_ …?”

“Yes. I don’t know how he did it, but the only reason you’re ‘recovering so well’ is because of Elven magic. If it weren’t for that, I have no idea what kind of place you’d be in right now, Bilbo.”

Bilbo nods, wide eyes unfocused, slowly accepting the new information and letting go of his unexplainable anger. Thorin… Thorin apparently _saved_ him. He’s seen so many sides of Thorin lately that he doesn’t even know what to think. Last night, Thorin seemed so sheepish and gentle and an entire different person, compared to the Thorin Bilbo faced on Erebor’s battlements, days ago. When he thought he was going to die, struggling to tell Thorin how much he cares about his friend, he remembers looking into the eyes of a Thorin who was somewhere in between, both caring and fierce, strong and warm. Bilbo can't help but wonder if the Gold Sickness is gone for good. He’s not sure he could stand seeing that side of Thorin again. Thorin…

Bilbo’s never met someone so intriguing, someone who confuses and surprises him time and time again, just when he thinks he has them all figured out. He’s never thought that there is someone out there who would make him worry out of his mind and infuriate him at the very same time, someone who would design themselves a place in Bilbo’s heart without Bilbo’s consent and realisation.

“Was Thorin… all right after the battle?” he can’t help but feel compelled to ask, in the light of Fíli’s reveal. “I—I hope he’s still not mad at me for the whole Arkenstone thing… I was just trying to help, it’s all I’ve ever done.”

Fíli’s heart constricts at his friend’s genuine confession. “ _No_ , Mahal, no. He said you’re the sole reason this battle was won.” He watches as Bilbo’s cheeks redden, the blush spreading all the way to the adorable tips of his ears. “He’s no longer _sick_ , if that’s what you wanted to hear. A few scratches and bruises after the battle, nothing serious. Óin kind of freaked out when he found an arrowhead lodged in his thigh, like a day after the battle, but he’s healed now. Back to good ol’ Thorin. He… well, he went out of his mind when you got hurt; he cares about you very much. I think he spent a few nights sleeping here. He’s blaming himself for what happened to you.”

“Is—is that so?” Bilbo’s blush is deepening. “He shouldn’t, I threw myself willingly between him and Azog and it wasn’t his fault, honestly. I’m glad he’s alright.”

Fíli pauses before saying anything else. He’s thought about this, about what Thorin said when he was confronted by Dáin about the feast, about what Kíli and he discussed. They owe the Hobbit so much, and Bilbo should know it.

“Bilbo, I truly don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t come on Ravenhill that day. Or if you hadn’t taken the Arkenstone and delayed the battle. You’re the unsung hero of this battle. You saved us all up there, and I have no doubt that Thorin will tell you so himself later. Without you, I don’t know if we’d be alive right now. We owe you so much and I want to thank you, my friend. You have no idea how grateful I am for what you’ve done.”

There are tears in Bilbo’s eyes and Fíli can’t help but sit up and bend down to hug him tightly, enclosing his arms around the Hobbit’s tiny shoulders. Bilbo reaches up and returns the hug just as fiercely.

“You have nothing to thank me for, Fíli. You don’t owe me anything. You’re my friends and I’d do it all over again to protect you. I’m no hero, goodness, how did you even come up with that?” Bilbo says, giving him a watery smile when they let go while wiping at his eyes.

“Thorin won’t agree with you,” Fíli realises, half-joking and half-serious. “I don’t, either, but just hope you’re saying this out of Hobbitish modesty and not because you’re not realising how important your actions were.”

“Really, Fíli, let it go. If I said that you’re welcome would we stop discussing it?” Bilbo says, feeling touched and embarrassed at the same time by Fíli’s speech.

“I—yes, fine.”

“You are most welcome, then.” Bilbo grins at him, glad to change the topic. “Also, tell Thorin to stop by when you see him. I have a bone or two to pick with him. But until then, tell me, how are the others?”

Fíli spends the next few minutes telling him how the Company coped with the aftermath of the battle, and he would’ve lost track of time if Óin hadn’t returned, tray of food in hands, telling him that he’s expected at breakfast downstairs before the beginning of the meeting. Before he takes off reluctantly, he ruffles Bilbo’s hair one more time and tells him he’ll visit in the evening. Bilbo pouts as he watches his friend leave, then dives into the food Óin brought him, driven by a hunger he didn’t know he had.

On his way down, Fíli’s path crosses with his brother’s on the stairs. “Bilbo’s awake!” he exclaims the second he sees the unruly, dark mop of hair.

Kíli hurries up, jumping the steps two at a time to close the distance between them. “Blimey! Really?”

The blond nods frantically. Kíli’s bright smile is contagious and he can’t help mirroring it.

“That’s amazing! Can I go see him?” Kíli asks, out of breath and more excited than ever.

“Aye, I bet he’d like the company. Óin’s suffocating him,” Fíli replies, starting to descend again and passing by his brother.

“Oh, you’d better hurry,” the brunet is quick to add, turning his head after his brother and leaning against the handrail. He smirks. “Uncle didn’t seem too happy to see you weren’t at breakfast. They’ve finished eating already.”

Fíli stops and looks up at him, face void of expression. “Shite.”

“Indeed.”

The Heir Under the Mountain hears his brother chuckle as he starts running down the stairs, praying to Mahal for mercy. He swears under his breath, imagining just how angry Thorin will be when he disrupts the beginning of the meeting. Maybe after Fíli discreetly delivers him the good news, Thorin will forget about his small transgression. He knows his Uncle will surely be the happiest of them all to hear it, even though he probably won’t show it.

He reaches the tall door just seconds before Dwalin and Nori, standing guard once again, close it. He whispers at them to wait and he slides in, not before telling them that Bilbo’s awake. Both of them light up when they hear the news and Fíli grins mischievously as they close the door behind him.

The members of the Post-War Council are still settling in their seats when he crosses the room to find his own seat, on his Uncle’s left. Mentally, he pump his fist in victory, glad that his lateness goes unnoticed by most of the members. His Uncle, unfortunately, isn’t one of them.

Fíli leans in his direction subtly, under the pretence of shrugging off his coat, ignoring the daggers in Thorin’s eyes. “Bilbo’s awake,” he whispers, barely subduing a smile.

To Fíli’s surprise, his Uncle doesn’t react as expected. Thorin looks away from him, stiffening, not even close to losing his composure. His eyes focus on a point high on the wall in front of him as he steels his jaw. He looks nothing short of emotionless and calculated, a façade of a type of leader Fíli knows he isn’t.

“Now’s not the time, Fíli,” he says quietly, his calm veneer hiding his irritation. “Be quiet and pay attention.”

The meeting begins and Fíli is left feeling like an unfairly chastised Dwarfling, as he wonders where exactly his Uncle went wrong.

 


	10. Bending Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, again: This chapter isn't beta-read! Sorry for any mistakes you might find T-T  
> Enjoy and feel free to leave comments!

Bilbo can’t fall asleep. He’s been trying to will sleep to come to him for the past hour, but the truth is he’s never really been able to sleep in the afternoons. Not even when he wasn’t recovering from a wound that apparently almost killed him.

What’s ironic is that he’s tired and he _wants_ to sleep. His stitches itch and he feels drowsy. The latter might be tied to the awful-tasting medicine Óin forced down his throat earlier. ‘Just being cautious. Say aaah,’ the healer said before shoving a spoonful of brown liquid in Bilbo’s mouth. The disgusted gagging that came afterwards even prevented him from using some descriptive, colourful language which should have been addressed to the Dwarf. Righteously, too.

He sighs in frustration. He likes Óin, he really does. But right now he’d rather face the spiders of Mirkwood once more than be Óin’s patient. The Dwarf’s bedside manners are simply atrocious!

First he pokes and prods him like stock at a cattle market, then he tries to poison him with various disgusting herb tinctures, only to forbid him afterwards to eat anything else but porridge. Porridge that tasted similar to the medicine, mind you. And that’s not even everything!

Barely minutes after Fíli abruptly ended his visit, Kíli similarly barged in, with another few members of the Company in tow. Bilbo’s chest filled with warmth when his friends huddled around his bed and overwhelmed him with their kind thoughts. He has no idea how Kíli even managed to spread the word so fast. Gathering six Dwarves who were at the time busy with different tasks in various parts of Erebor in just a couple of minutes is no small feat. Bombur’s smeared apron was proof enough that Kíli had just snatched him from the kitchens, Ori’s ink stained fingers spoke of interrupted scribe duties, and both Bifur and Bofur looked as though they’ve been moving rubble around, judging by the dust on their clothes. Only Glóin, who was leaning heavily on crutches due to his knee injury, and Dori, who was unfit for physical work because of his bruised ribs, had been grumblingly resting instead of helping around as well.

Needless to say that laughter and merriment replaced the bleak atmosphere in an instant. Bilbo was rendered speechless by the loyalty of his friends. While they all took turns saying just how concerned they were, he could only think about what his life would be like right now if he hadn’t bolted out his door that day, backpack rattling on his back and contract fluttering behind him as he ran to catch up with the Company. Surely he’d be one nasty Dwarf healer short, that’s for sure. Because what does Óin do with Bilbo’s friendly visitors? Of course he ushers them out the door, cutting their visit short, on grounds that they were being far too boisterous. And that can’t do any good in helping Bilbo recover, or so Óin said. Too much excitement at once, or something along those lines.

Alright, Bilbo understands that Óin wants the best for him and that without his skills and knowledge he probably wouldn’t even be alive now, but why must Óin make things so hard for him? Compared to the tender way in which Belladonna Took tended to her fauntling son’s knee scrapes, colds, and on one occasion, broken bones, Óin’s gentleness is practically non-existent. Bilbo just prays he will never get himself in another situation that would require Óin’s medical expertise and his Dwarvish methods.

And so, Bilbo finds himself alone with his thoughts, unable to rest. He begrudgingly admits that Óin was right and that he does need rest, but what good does that do him when he’s incapable of getting it?

Last night it was so easy for him to fall back into slumber, even though he had reasons to stay awake. Thorin being there for him when he needed help feels more like it was a dream than something that actually happened. His mind replays Thorin’s hand taking his when he held it out, desperate for another being’s touch, and his hand tingles. He thinks about what Fíli told him this morning and the corners of his mouth turn up in an involuntary smile. This _could_ be the reason he can’t sleep. After all, one doesn’t simply fall asleep right after they hear Thorin Oakenshield cares about them so much that he actually convinced Thranduil by Yavanna knows what means to heal them.

It’s a weird feeling, knowing that his sacrifice meant so much to his friend. Judging by what he’s heard and what happened last night, Bilbo is quite sure that his friendship with Thorin has prevailed, without suffering too much damage. But, in spite of feeling contentment and relief as he thinks this, somewhere deep inside his chest a tiny, frail voice he hasn’t heard before tells him that it’s not enough.

He doesn’t know what to make of it. The feeling seems vaguely familiar, as though he’s felt it before, but he can’t remember when or where.

He doesn’t struggle too much, though. Bilbo has never really been any good at dealing with his feelings, emotion and all that. He, just like any other Hobbit, preferred to embrace logic, distant manners and tradition. Since the death of his mother seven years ago, he’s been on his own, living in seclusion, with the exception of Hamfast Gamgee’s company and the occasional family reunions he doesn’t particularly enjoy. Even though Hamfast is his employed gardener, he’d been his only friend before the journey. All this time he’s thought of friendship as no more than a repetitive process of exchanging pleasantries and making some small talk to pass the time while being in someone’s presence on a daily basis. His friendship with the Gaffer was something born out of necessity and prolonged exposure to one another. They aren’t close, but they tolerate each other and that is enough for both of them. Bilbo thought he wouldn’t need more from a person he calls a friend.

Until, of course, Gandalf paid him a visit and dragged him along on a suicidal quest along with thirteen stubborn Dwarves. Who would’ve thought that those Dwarves would fill a gaping hole in Bilbo’s life he didn’t even know needed filling?

The Battle made him remember the last time he’s ever felt crippling fear for another’s life. The Fell Winter represented the darkest hour of not only his life, but of an entire generation of Hobbits. He and his family were lucky to be among the very few who made it through mostly unscathed. He was barely twenty, not even of age yet, when the Brandywine River froze and Orcs and wolves crossed it to prey on a Shire already struck by famine. Bilbo remembers the howls, the screams, the mounds of snow, taller than him and tainted by blood. He remembers how Belladonna had to sell her dowry to secure their meals, how he couldn’t feel his fingers even though the fire in the fireplace was burning stronger than ever, how Bungo shivered as he removed the blanket from his shoulders only to place it on his son’s already covered ones, how a quarter of the Shire’s population was decimated in just a few months, how he clung to his parents like a small fauntling, and how he desperately cried in fear when his parents had to venture outside to find food.

Thirty years have passed since the Fell Winter, and he still has vivid memories of it. He can’t help but associate the image of his mother putting on a far too thin jacket, opening the door and stepping out into the white blizzard while wolves howled in the distance, with Thorin gripping his sword and charging in Azog’s direction, snowflakes adorning his hair and coat and Azog’s mutts growling at him. One Fell Winter in his life had been enough. He still has nightmares in which his mother fails to return and he finds her ripped jacket underneath bloodied snow. He doesn’t want any more nightmares. This time, he had a choice, a way of intervening and of stopping it. And he did all he could to protect the ones he cared about. Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, the entire Company.

Those Dwarves came into his life unexpectedly, and he didn’t even know just how much he needed their friendship. He didn’t even realise he’d been so lonely. This journey has changed him for good. He feels fiercely, he’s letting his emotions surface, he’s embracing the Dwarven ways. That’s a good way of describing his change: he has kind of become a Dwarf himself. The thought almost makes him laugh out loud. He’s wearing their clothes, his hair hasn’t been cut in over a year, he’s no longer bothered by their lack of manners… it’s only appropriate to say he has slowly become one of them.

Bag End feels so distant and almost undesirable anymore. He remembers how he yearned for his home during the first half of his journey. Now, as he’s alone in a windowless room, deep into the stone of a mountain he helped reclaim, a room which doesn’t compare with his homely hole, he finds that Bag End’s comfort might not be everything he’s wanted in life.

And Thorin… well, Thorin is to blame for it. Hobbits have never let themselves be led by a King or anything of the like. Their society is loosely organised, and the only leader they have, the Thain, is symbolic and has never wielded any significant power. Bilbo has never felt the need to be leaded, no, and he still doesn’t. But Thorin does inspire him. The Dwarf holds some power over him, based on credibility, mutual trust, and compassion. It’s integrated in their friendship and it’s what compelled Bilbo to put Thorin’s life before his, more than once. He’s quite sure that Thorin can feel it too, that this link doesn’t only go one way. He’s seen it in the many times Thorin’s heeded his advice when he wouldn’t listen to anyone else. He can’t really describe it, but he feels tied to the Dwarf in a way he hasn’t ever been to anyone.

Maybe Fíli will be successful in getting Thorin to visit him today. Ever since he’s woken up he’s had this strange feeling that something’s missing and that little voice tells him it’s related to Thorin, somehow. He can’t deny the fact that it makes sense, though. The Battle didn’t leave them in a good place and they’ve got to talk it through if they want things to be like they were before.

He manages to fall asleep at some point, comforted by the thought that he’ll finally manage to fix his relationship with the Dwarf he cares about so much.

 

~*~

 

Fíli holds on to his cup of tea like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held, the radiating warmth making his fingers tingle pleasantly.

This first part of the meeting hasn’t been that bad. He’s finally getting the hang of it, and he’s proud of himself. The contracts have begun to make sense to him and he even took initiative and pointed out some things, voicing his own opinion. Thorin seemed positively impressed with his ideas. He smiles and takes a cautious sip of his hot tea, enjoying the short break from the meeting.

The kitchens are slowly becoming his favourite place to hang out in Erebor. He can’t wait for the caravans from the Blue Mountains to arrive, so the place can be manned by skilled cooks and brought back to life. He leans against a set of cupboards and smiles at Bombur, who was kind enough to provide him with a rusty kettle and left him to fend for himself while he stirred in a pot that needed his attention. Fíli made his tea while he listened to Bombur’s story of how Óin kicked him and the rest of the Company out from Bilbo’s room. He laughed and shook his head, imagining the scene.

“I should get back,” Fíli says, straightening up and sighing. He drinks the rest of the tea, rinses the cup, and places it back from where he took it.

“Aye, you better get going. You wouldn’t want to run late again,” Bombur says, winking at him.

Fíli sticks out his tongue. “Thanks for the tea,” he adds on his way out of the kitchens.

“You made yourself, lad, don’t thank me!” Bombur shouts at him as leaves.

Fíli just smiles and keeps walking. It’s been a good morning, despite the incident with his Uncle. He makes his way through narrow corridors and steep flights of stairs, happy to have found a shortcut between the kitchens and the main wing of Erebor, where the Council Chambers are. It makes his frequent trips to the kitchens much easier.

Once he arrives in the hallway, he notices that the others haven’t even gathered up again. Dáin is discussing something passionately with his advisors in Khuzdul in an alcove, concealed from unwanted looks, Bard and Beorn haven’t even left the Chambers, and Thranduil, Tauriel, and Balin are conversing calmly in the hallway, while Dwalin and Nori are at their post, as usual. His Uncle and Gandalf are nowhere to be seen, though.

He decides to make the most of the little time he has left before the meeting starts again and he makes his way to the balconies, thinking he’d enjoy the view for a bit. He feels the chill in the air as he leaves the hallway and makes a turn toward the balconies. But before he can step onto the suspended terrace, he hears two familiar voices carrying over the sharp wind, engaged in fierce argument.

“—haven’t said anything about it to him yet, your skull is much thicker than I thought!”

“Do not insult me, Wizard! My personal affairs are none of your business and you have no say in how I will handle this.”

Fíli recognises the voices, and while he knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop, he stops dead in his tracks and hides behind the stone wall, not wanting to announce his presence to the two of them.

“Is that so? Do you honestly think that I was unaware of what exactly Bilbo would become to you when I suggested that he join your Company? Make no mistake, Thorin Oakenshield, _I’ve always known what he means to you_!”

Fíli frowns in confusion and his interest in the exchange spikes when his Uncle fails to deliver an immediate reply. ‘ _What Bilbo means to Thorin? Are they talking about what happened before the battle? As usual, Gandalf makes no sense…_ ’ Fíli thinks as he anxiously waits for an enlightening response from Thorin.

“…If you say something to him, Gandalf, I swear on my Maker—”

“Spare me your empty threats, O, King Under the Mountain! I was the one to bring Bilbo along and I will also be the one to take him back to his home. And I _will_ do so the minute he’s recovered enough, because I’d be a fool to let him stay for longer than necessary in this cursed Mountain, with _you_! You’ve hurt him, you wanted to kill him, and now you tell me you’ve just realised he is your One? Unbelievable!”

Fíli doesn’t even process it at first. He almost misses that short, powerful word, as he panics at the thought of Gandalf taking Bilbo away from them. Then his mind homes in on that word. _One_. Oh… _Now_ it makes sense. Durin’s beard, who would’ve thought?

Gandalf laughs bitterly. “I had hoped he would change you. And he has, perhaps, but you have yet to prove it to me.” A great pause follows, while the Wizard decides upon his course of action. “I will not meddle and I will not take him away, not unless he wants to leave on his own. But you have to make up for everything you’ve done. And if you touch a single hair on his head in malice again, you’ll answer to me, and I’ll take him back to the Shire that very minute. Have I made myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Thorin spits out, obviously despising the fact that he’s under Gandalf’s thumb. But Fíli can detect relief in his voice.

“Good,” Gandalf declares on a calmer tone.

To Fíli, this seems like the end of the dispute and, even though his shock hasn’t worn off yet, he flees the scene, looking for a quick way to conceal his presence. He hides in an alcove while he waits for the two to pass by him.

So this is what Kíli refused to share with him. He doesn’t blame him for keeping to himself anymore. He’s not even that surprised, _it makes sense_. He only wishes he’d realised it sooner, but he had hardly any proof or hints pointing at this. He doesn’t have time to let the information sink in, because once the Wizard and his Uncle pass by the alcove, overlooking him, he waits a few seconds before tailing them, making sure it doesn’t look like he’s been following them.

He takes a detour through the galleries, arriving back in the hallway of the Council Chambers, where all the others have gathered once again. Thorin looks at him in suspicion and a cold feeling of dread takes over Fíli as he thinks he’s been discovered. His Uncle approaches him and Fíli digs his nails in his palms, preparing for the worst.

“Tonight, after this is finished, you’re going up with me,” Thorin tells him quietly, while guiding him with one hand through the doors. Fíli tries not to look too tense as his Uncle leans in to whisper in his ear. “I’ll need a witness for the destruction of the Arkenstone.”

Fíli nods quickly. He’s relieved that the eavesdropping incident went undiscovered, but he wasn’t expecting this, either. He nods and takes his seat at his Uncle’s left.

He keeps quiet for the rest of the meeting, chewing on his bottom lip and processing the exchange he’s just heard.

 

~*~

 

Thorin looks down, leaning against the railing, the harsh wind throwing his hair against his face. Balin is in position, clearing the stone plateau of snow to make the fall as hard as possible, no more than a tiny spot of red against the muddy white.

As soon as the last document, the Treaty of Erebor, which brought peace between the Elves of Mirkwood and Erebor, was signed and the Arkenstone was placed on the table for Thorin to take it and destroy it, the meetings were declared over. Immediately after that, he and Fíli began climbing the rough steps ascending to the top of the southern ridge of the Mountain. It’s the only side of Erebor that was hewn steeply enough, making an almost perpendicular angle with the ground. Balin is waiting down there, ready to gather the pieces if their plan goes through.

There’s no precise way of calculating how the stone is going to fall and where, but Thorin trusts his eye and hand. From his right, the sun casts a warm glow as it sets behind Dale. His eyes catch movement from within the ancient city and he’s proud of himself for convincing Bard to accept the lordship that one of the treaties offered him, along with a rather large sum of gold meant to aid in the rebuilding of the city. He has faith in Bard and he’s met no better Man suited for the job. Soon, both of their homes will prosper again.

“I think Balin is signalling us,” Fíli says, interrupting Thorin’s thoughts.

Indeed, Balin released the raven he had been holding in a cage, just how they’ve discussed, letting them now he’s ready for the drop. The black bird soars the sky, its cawing echoing against the stone peak. Thorin reaches inside his coat pocket and brings out the large gem. He weighs it in his hand, trailing his fingers across its polished surface. He thought it would be heavier, and he frowns as he recalls just how much poison this petty stone has poured in his and his family’s veins. He’s doing the right thing.

He leans further and extends his arm over the railing, letting the hand which holds the Arkenstone in a tight grip hover above the place where he estimates it should land.

Letting go of that cursed stone is one of the best feelings he’s ever experienced. Even though he’s too far to actually hear the crash, he can swear the wind carries the satisfactory sound. When Fíli asks him in bewilderment, “Did you hear that too?” he’s relieved to be assured that it wasn’t just his imagination. Hearing that stone break makes his breathing easier, somehow.

When they arrive back down on the plateau, they find Balin still gathering the pieces. The ground shines where the stone fell, as parts of it were turned to dust on the impact. At the end, Thorin is entrusted with a pouch, containing the smallest of shiny, flawed pebbles which have lost their glow. He looks at them, wondering how on Middle-Earth he had managed to let himself be driven insane by the whole they used to form. Fíli frowns, watching his uncle.

“You should give them to Bilbo.”

“ _What?_ ” Thorin blurts, startled, his head turning quickly towards the young Dwarf.

“The remains. Give them to Bilbo. They could stand by your apology. Or you could simply gift them to him, to show him you care more about him than you do about the Arkenstone. I… I saw him this morning and he thought that you were still mad at him for stealing it. Besides, he told me to ask you to visit him this evening.”

Thorin just looks at him, eyes slightly wide.

“I don’t pretend to understand how either of you feel, Uncle, but both of you need to set this right. You can’t afford to avoid him, I know how much you care about Bilbo and—”

“That’s enough, Fíli,” Thorin barks, cutting Fíli short. He didn’t like where that was heading.

Fíli closes his mouth and watches him walk away. Balin comes up from behind him and clasps his shoulder.

“Don’t mind him, lad. He knows you’re right,” he says, trying to comfort the Prince. “He’ll come around.”

“Yeah, he will,” Fíli says weakly, trying to believe in his own words. But Balin doesn’t know what he knows.

“Now, how about you take me to see this Hobbit of ours…” Balin says, guiding Fíli towards the pathway that leads back to the main gates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I've hit 10k hits last week and I'm so happy! Thank you guys so much!! I thought this wouldn't even get 5k by the time I'm done with it! woop woop *celebratory dancing*  
> This chapter is a bit shorter than the rest, but it hopefully feels like some development in both plot and characters, eh? It might take a while till the next one is published, though, I'm buried waist-deep in projects, extracurriculars, college applications, and test papers :(


	11. Cracks in the Dam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter isn't beta-ed!  
> Enjoy!

Ori sighs, seeing his own breath in the cold air. He shoves his gloved fingers deeper into his pockets, already feeling his fingertips going numb in spite of the warm wool covering them. He casts a glance in Dwalin’s direction and smiles a bit, noticing that his One is wearing the gloves Ori made for him. Dwalin doesn’t even seem to notice the cold as he stands by Thorin’s side, watching the road.

It’s been three weeks since the Battle, and Ori feels uneasy about returning up here, on the battlements. He’s not the only one who feels so. He can easily tell that Thorin looks positively sickened to be here again.

The last time they were on the battlements wasn’t a good day, for either of the members of the Company. However, they had no choice but to come back up here today, all of them. Well, all of them except Bilbo, who Óin desperately tries to keep away from the cold so that his weak immune system won’t make it easier for him to catch something that would wreak havoc on his body. In hindsight, maybe it’s for the best that Bilbo can’t be here today.

Thankfully, the Hobbit is up and about, slowly starting to walk on his own again, under Óin’s careful supervision. Ori is planning on visiting him, as soon as they’re finished up here. He’s sure Bilbo would want to be kept up to date with the developments.

Ori shivers as the wind carries snowflakes in his face. He can feel his cheeks and nose turning red. He involuntarily thinks of the warmth of the bed he struggled to leave this morning and the events of last night. He blushes, but for an entire different reason this time.

It’s definitely inappropriate to think about it now, with his brothers flanking him. Ori wishes he could pinch himself, but it’s kind of impossible through the multiple layers he’s wearing.

“Durin’s beard, must we really wait up here? All of us? Look at poor Ori, he’s freezing half to death!” Dori complains loudly.

If possible, Ori blushes even harder when his brother blames his redness on the cold. Dwalin turns to look at him worryingly and Ori bites his lips and shakes his head, trying hard not to smile. Something in Ori’s expression gives him away and Dwalin’s eyes widen slightly, brows shooting up as he realises why Ori is red in the face.

“Yes, Dori, we must and we will. It is expected of us and I will not let Dáin nag me about this,” Thorin says on a harsher tone than necessary. He’s clearly feeling on edge today. He’s been on edge all week.

Thorin’s reply makes Dwalin break eye contact with his One and he turns back around. His body shifts slightly though, as if he’s bothered by something, and Ori bites his lips again, well aware of Dwalin’s thoughts at the moments. They _are_ connected by a bond after all. A rather strong one, Ori can say, after studying them with interest for many years.

The fact that he and Dwalin have gained the ability of exchanging thoughts and feelings through the bond as soon as they've both acknowledged it is proof of that. It usually takes years of intimacy to form a bond like that. He and Dwalin have felt it right from the start. And it got visibly stronger last evening, when Dwalin finally braided his beads in Ori’s hair. Among other things.

Dori threw an ugly fit in the morning when he saw them, but he started sobbing when he examined them up close. As the head of their family, he had to make sure that the beads’ craftsmanship was worthy, and knowing how much Dori opposed the relationship at first, Ori was sure that Dori wouldn’t approve of them.

True enough, the older Dwarf was initially set on criticising them, but the flawless amber beads eventually brought tears to his eyes. They fit Ori perfectly and Dori was simply struck by the fact that now his little brother is officially bonded. It doesn’t matter to Dori that the Dwarf in question is Dwalin anymore. He’s finally admitting that they make a perfect match, in spite of their age and other social differences he found outraging before.

A young Dwarf, with a bright future ahead and supported by a well-off, respectable family of craftsmen, to be bonded to an old warrior, scarred and who doesn’t even have two coins to rub together? It would have been considered social suicide. Now, who cares about the norms of a society torn apart by dragons and war, when even the smallest sliver of love is to be protected and cherished, regardless of its nature?

The wind blows forcefully again, Ori’s braids swaying and making his new beads touch his cheek. Feeling comforted by the contact, he sends a steady flow of affection and warmth down the bond. Dwalin doesn’t delay in returning it just as strongly, making Ori grin.

Their interaction is cut short by the sound of hooves on the icy path. They hear the caravan before they see it through the fog and the snowfall. Ori shivers again, but this time it has nothing to do with the cold, or his bonded.

When Thorin had announced last week that Dáin called for a caravan from the Iron Hills with supplies and Dwarves that would help with the repairs, Ori thought nothing of it. It is a nice gesture coming from Dáin. And anticipated, since Thorin gave him a part of the treasure in exchange for further support. He didn’t expect, however, the two dozen soldiers he’s seeing now, marching in the front of the caravan, ahead of the carriages. And Thorin didn’t, either, judging by the low curse he lets out under his breath.

It’s enough that Dáin’s army is still stationed in Erebor, eating his food and drinking his wine. Thorin wouldn’t mind it if they helped with the repairs, but Dáin didn’t order them to get involved, he just simply asked for apt volunteers. Needless to say, there were few of them. After all, Dáin’s army is mostly formed out of mercenaries, skilled sellswords whose job is not to get involved. The Iron Hills Dwarves are mostly craftsmen and miners, not warriors, and even the few who joined Dáin’s army don’t care much about Erebor either, it seems. Last thing they need now is more soldiers idling around.

Ori assumes that they’re likely a security detail, meant to protect the caravan, but he still feels uneasy watching them approach the gates, instead of feeling protected. After all, that is their purpose, right? To defend Erebor. Both Thranduil and Gandalf had warned them, before they left for Mirkwood last week. There were disbanded groups of goblins and Orcs still loitering in Erebor’s vicinity and they could be prone to surprises.

Gandalf’s departure saddened them all. They all knew the Wizard would leave at some point, but they thought he’d stay longer. Once he made sure Bilbo was on the right path to a full recovery, he left, stating that he has some business in Rivendell. Things were hastened by Thranduil’s offer to make his journey easier by escorting him through Mirkwood on his way back, and since Thranduil was eager to leave Erebor, Gandalf had to leave too, sooner than expected.

Only Beorn and Tauriel stayed behind, the former willing to help them and the latter having been chosen as the new Emissary between Mirkwood and Erebor, a position created after the peace treaty was signed. Tauriel’s presence here does wonders for the political interests of Erebor and Mirkwood, and for her and Kíli’s relationship. Both of them are extremely glad that they don’t have to be apart for lengthy periods of time. Tauriel would have to move back and forth between the kingdoms occasionally though, but Kíli said he wouldn’t mind travelling with her. He could be Erebor’s own emissary to Mirkwood, he joked.

In spite of apparent difficulties, related to the reparations, everything is going really well. Everyone is recovering, there are two courtships in full swing, plus a coronation to look forward to, the caravan from the Blue Mountains is on its way and all conflicts are resolved. Ori is sure that things are only going to get better and better.

Once the convoy goes past the repaired gates, they finally return to the warmth of the Mountain. Thorin, together with Nori, Balin, and Dwalin, stay behind on the battlements to discuss something, and Ori draws away inside to patiently await his One.

He leans against the stone wall, happy to find the surface warm to the touch. He takes his gloves off, pressing his palms against the heated stone. Just a few days ago, the few Dwarves who know how the heating mechanisms of the Mountain work managed to bring the furnaces back to life. Ori doesn’t exactly understand how the heat carries through layers and layers of stone, warming up every wall, floor and ceiling in Erebor, but he’s thankful that such a mechanism exists. Pipes, maybe? Some conducting material inside the stone?

He doesn’t have much time to question the Mountain’s engineering. Dwalin and the others return, all of them seemingly frowning. Thorin storms off with a deep scowl on his face, probably heading towards the entrance to welcome the newcomers. Dwalin would’ve overlooked Ori and went right past him, following their leader, if Ori hadn’t caught his sleeve and quickly drawn his attention.

The older Dwarf’s expression softens. He stops, but he doesn’t relax fully, his eyes darting in the direction Thorin took off. Ori understands. He’s got work to do in the library as well. He just doesn’t want to be alone. There are no other Dwarves who’d help with the restoration. Just him.

Ori sighs and nods understandingly. Dwalin takes his gloves off, then holds Ori’s warmed hands in his. Out of the corner of his eye, Ori notices Nori squinting at them, but, surprisingly, it only takes one glare from the younger Dwarf to make his brother take off. Nori is shortly followed by Balin, letting the two of them have some privacy.

Relishing in the moment, Ori leans forward and rests his head on Dwalin’s chest. The warrior catches him in his arms, embracing him with no hesitation. Ori just holds him tight, face buried in his armour, knowing this won’t last long. He probably won’t see Dwalin again until late, late at night.

“I’ll see ye tonight, hmm?” Dwalin asks him, knowing exactly what his One is thinking.

Ori feels, rather than hears the rumbles of his low voice as he tucks his head under Dwalin’s neck. “Yeah,” he whispers back, closing his eyes for a moment. Dwalin moves his hand up and down his spine, making him shiver and melt in the strong arms.

They have to pull back, eventually, and Ori sighs as Dwalin bends down to catch his lips in a quick, but endearing kiss.

 **“What have I ever done to deserve ye?”** Dwalin asks him through the bond and Ori smiles as he hears his One’s voice inside his head.

They put space between them, Dwalin stepping out of Ori’s reach. The young scribe has to fight an impulse to grab him by the sleeve again to pull him back.

 **“I could ask the very same thing, my love,”** Ori replies innocently.

 

~*~

 

The crutch shakes in his hand, gliding unsteadily against the floor as he tries to bend down and support himself with it at the same time. He grunts and gives up, glaring hatefully at the gleaming Ring at his feet. It’s like the damn thing is doing this on purpose.

“Why you little…” he grumbles.

He didn’t drop it, it just… slipped through his fingers. On its own. He’s firmly convinced of it.

Yavanna, is he going mad?

It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. He can clearly recall the battle, how he lunged forward to stop Azog only to have the Ring betray him. He shakes involuntarily.

Still glaring at the wicked trinket, he uses the crutch to lower himself on the bed again, forcing his weak muscles and wincing in pain. There goes his plan. He’ll have to wait for someone to drop by and ask them to give him the Ring. This was the perfect opportunity! Everyone else is distracted by that convoy arriving…

Doing this at night time could be more difficult, but he knows he can do it. He’ll have to be more careful, and quiet. Without the crutch, he realises. He’s not ready. Damn that sly, glinting, evil little—

The door opens slowly and his head immediately turns towards it, curious as to whom exactly has chosen to pay him a visit. ‘ _Maybe it’s—no, it can’t be,’_ he stops himself from thinking.

“Ori!” he exclaims once the young Dwarf fully opens the door, trying not to sound disappointed. “Come in, don’t just stand there,” he chirps, feigning happiness. His plan can now get back on track. He’s really sorry that he must use poor Ori, but he just _has_ to do this.

“Good morning, Mister Bilbo,” Ori greets him, smiling. “Thought I’d stop by on my way to the library, see how you’ve been doing.”

“Oh, I’m great, don’t you worry about me,” Bilbo waves aside his friend’s concern. “Actually… Ori, would you be a doll and pick up my ring for me? It’s at the foot of the bed. I seem to have, uh, dropped it.”

As Bilbo, expected, Ori complies happily, picks up the Ring from the floor and hands it back to him. Bilbo thanks him and takes it with steady fingers, pocketing it carefully in his robe.

Ori starts describing what’s been going on in Erebor, but Bilbo doesn’t really pay attention to what the young scribe is telling him. In his head, he starts revising his plan. ‘ _Alright, so. I’ll wait until the coast is clear. Then I’ll put on the Ring and slip out of the room. No crutch. It will just make noise, I’ll manage without it somehow. Then I’ll just find the right—wait, what are those…?_ ’

Ori had sat down and taken off his coat while Bilbo was plotting silently, and now he is removing his scarf, revealing some purplish bits of skin on his neck. At first, Bilbo thinks they are bruises, but he knows what kind of bruises strangulation leaves (he tries not to think about it now, shivering at the awful memory), and these certainly don’t look like they’ve been caused by hands.

Oh, my. Bilbo’s Hobbitish sensibilities are deeply wounded. Scandalous!

He opens his mouth to tease the young Dwarf, knowing all too well how long Ori had been struggling with his and Dwalin’s relationship, but something else draws his attention from the hickeys. Something that shines beautifully in the firelight, bobbing gently at Ori’s every move, securing a fine little braid by the Dwarf’s ear. Bilbo smiles, genuinely.

“Do you have something to tell me, Ori?” he asks brightly.

Ori widens his eyes comically, looking like a scared owl about to fly away. He quickly covers his neck consciously with his hands. “I—uh…well, I fell and—”

Bilbo just bursts out in laughter. Ori looks at him, eyes even bigger, red in the face and completely terrified. It takes a good few seconds for Bilbo to stop laughing.

“I was referring to the new additions in your hair!” he says, wiping at his eyes mirthfully. “I’m sorry to hear that you fell, though. Must’ve hurt a lot… you poor thing,” he can’t help adding, faking a sad, sympathetic pout.

Ori is mortified beyond words and Bilbo bites his lips hard to stop himself from laughing and from tormenting the Dwarf even further.

“All right, all right, I’m sorry! Honestly though, those are beautiful beads, Ori. I’m happy you two have finally made it work,” he says, seeing that Ori isn’t any close to making a recovery from his shock.

“…Thank you, Mister Bilbo,” Ori finally says, avoiding to make eye contact and still looking thoroughly embarrassed. He puts the scarf back around his neck, even though it’s quite warm in the room. “I still can’t believe we’ve finally bonded for good. It’s been quite a journey.”

He fidgets, eyeing the floor shyly, pensively, and Bilbo can tell that something is on the young Dwarf’s mind.

“Is everything fine with you two?” Bilbo asks sincerely, all thoughts of his plan discarded.

Ori smiles a bit. “Yes, yes. It’s just…” he trails off nervously, fingering the ends of his scarf.

“You can tell me, Ori,” Bilbo encourages him. “I won’t say a word to anyone.”

Ori takes a deep breath, nodding.

“Last night… before it happened…” he starts, stuttering and rolling one of his beads between his fingers. “Um, he—he tried to convince me to take my own beads back. He kept trying to shove them in my hands. He thought he should give me a way out, one last time, by saying that he doesn’t love me. That I can’t possibly love him, either.

“I just… broke down. It felt like—like the Mountain had crashed down on me. It’s one of the most awful things in the world, Mister Bilbo, to have your One reject you.”

He makes a pause, wincing as though he is reliving the memory. Bilbo just listens raptly, frowning.

“When he saw I wouldn’t take them back no matter what he said, he started crying too. Then he kneeled in front of me and made a fool of himself, begging me to forgive him and let him braid his beads in my hair… as if I wouldn’t have let him if he asked me years ago! I’ve known him my whole life— _I’ve known no one but him_! Did he really think I’d ever not want him? That I’d ever say no? I just…I just started crying harder.”

Bilbo is no Dwarf, but he tries to imagine what the beads and the bond mean. He chooses not to say anything, as Ori sobs once.

“I forgave him. How could I not forgive him?” Ori goes on, letting out a weepy chuckle. “But I made him promise to never deny our bond again. I know he loves me. He always has. And he knows I love him too, but he stubbornly doubts and questions it time and time again. I understand, though. He’s been angry for so long and deprived of so many good things in life. I want to show him what happiness means. He deserves it, we both do.

“But I’m afraid I won’t be enough for him—he’s sometimes so sad and angry that I feel I’m not able to reach out to him and pull him back, even if we have the bond now and I can feel what he feels. But I can’t help wondering… what if grow apart and I will never be able to make him happy? We are so different and I sometimes think that I will never really understand him…”

Bilbo moves closer to the edge of the bed and puts his hand over Ori’s, trying to comfort his friend. Ori is close to bursting into full tears, looking small and vulnerable.

“I can’t pretend to understand what you two have gone through and what the bond means. I might not be the right person to give you advice, Ori, but believe this foolish Hobbit when he says that time is all you need. I don’t know how it is to have another person tied to you, mind and heart and everything, but it must be a lot to take in. And Dwalin has always been one to keep to himself, hasn’t he?”

Ori nods slowly.

“You both need time, is what I’m saying. Time, intimacy and lots of talking. That’s what makes a relationship strong. At least’s that’s what I’ve heard. Dwalin loves you, and he just needs to get used to the bond. It will all work out, don’t you worry,” Bilbo says, patting Ori’s hand. “Now, no more weeping, I beg of you, unless you want Dwalin to feel it and break down the door to introduce me to Grasper and Keeper, thinking I made you cry.”

Ori wipes at his eyes. “Thank you, Mister Bilbo,” he hiccups and stands up from his chair to give Bilbo a hug. “I means a lot—hiccup—to me.” The Hobbit just hugs back, patting his back.

“I can only guess what happened after you exchanged the beads once and for all,” Bilbo says after Ori lets go, winking in an attempt to brighten the mood. “Tell me about your bond, though. What’s it like?” he asks in genuine curiosity.

The scribe reaches out inside his pocket and blows his nose gently before replying. “Well,” he begins, blushing for the hundredth time today, “I could always feel him at the back of my head and tugging at my chest. All Dwarves start feeling that when they meet their One. Some don’t even notice it. It can be distressing to others, right until they touch and acknowledge the bond. I’ve felt it ever since Dwalin came knocking on our door back home in the Blue Mountains, thirty years ago, looking to arrest Nori for some petty theft. I was just a child.

“I remember Dori ushered me away from the door to speak with him, but I snuck up behind him to look at the tall and handsome city guard. Nori, of course, wasn’t home, so Dwalin left shortly. I started crying. Dori thought I was afraid that he would take Nori away from us. It wasn’t because of that.

“I’ve never told anyone what I knew, not even my brothers. I made my beads years ago, dreaming of the day I’d give them to him. I’d spent most of my youth trying to figure out why Dwalin kept avoiding me for years on end and wondering if he felt the tug like I did. Then the quest began and I was sure that he hadn’t realised it, so I tried to court him, thinking that maybe he’d start feeling it eventually. Everyone thought I just had a meaningless crush, him included. You know all about that. They just laughed, saying it will pass, that every young Dwarfling goes through this kind of infatuation.

“I laughed too, when they couldn’t see me. What did they know about the beads I kept hidden in my bag? All their jokes, however, made me even more determined to make Dwalin admit he felt the pull too, to make him realise I’m his One.”

Bilbo remembers the evenings by the fire, Ori knitting quietly in a corner, throwing glances at the sulking warrior every now and then, Dori elbowing him angrily and Nori laughing. Dwalin always kept his head low, sharpening his axes to the point of almost ruining the blade, shrugging off his brother and Thorin’s concern.

He feels guilty for thinking Ori was a silly Dwarfling, looking for affection from a warrior who had none to give.

“I thought it would get better with time,” Ori goes on. “I would eventually convince him that it’s real, once the Mountain had been reclaimed and we’d all live together in Erebor. But then the Battle happened and he went up on Ravenhill, out of my reach. I’ve never felt such fear.

“So when it was over, I told him how I felt and asked him to let me braid his hair, knowing I could never live through another Battle again if I didn’t confess. It was the happiest moment of my life, when we both sat down in the snow, him staring at the beads in his palm like he was expecting them to vanish magically and letting me climb in his lap to start braiding.

“We slowly started sharing snippets of thoughts and feelings after that, healing the parts of the bond that were damaged in the years he denied it. That’s how I found out he’s always felt the tug too, but he ignored it and thought his mind was playing tricks on him, because he believed he didn’t deserve his One and his One didn’t deserve someone like him. Which is one of the silliest things I’ve ever heard.

“We didn’t talk much since. I suppose this is where it went wrong. We’ve both been busy and everything’s been hectic around here. Last night he came to my room and…uh, well, you know the rest. I shouldn’t have thought it’s all fine just because I gave him my beads. We should’ve talked about it sooner. But I suppose it turned out well in the end, after we’ve both fully accepted and embraced it.

“Now, can clearly hear what Dwalin thinks, if he wants to share his thoughts with me, and I can do the same. We can feel what the other feels, too, but we can’t control that. That’s good though, because I can know when he’s doing his grumpy thing,” he says, smiling. “But not all bonds are like mine and Dwalin’s. Most Dwarves just feel and hear bits or weak impressions. We’re lucky to be one of the few soulmates who have a very strong bond.”

Listening to Ori’s story, Bilbo inexplicably finds himself wishing he had someone to share that kind of connection with. For the first time in his life, his bachelor status starts bothering him. He’s never thought of settling down. It’s not really possible for him though, as he’s never been attracted to females. There’s only been one Hobbit who made him turn his head, back in his youthful days. A raven-haired, blue-eyed handsome little thing who shunned him when Bilbo tried to win his heart.

It didn’t matter anyway, since Hobbit society doesn’t look too kindly on that sort of thing. Hobbits don’t ‘bond’. They just marry and have children and live an ordinary life. Other types of relationships don’t make sense to them.

Bilbo hasn’t paid much attention to this aspect of his life. He’s always thought he is an oddity and that his preference should be kept hidden. He has never suffered because of it though, since he’s never needed anyone. He’s been completely fine on his own. He figured he’d marry at some point, to some lass he found acceptable, only to fulfil his family’s wishes and to carry on the line. But that never happened.

He’s not an oddity, he finally realises. Ori and Dwalin are not oddities. And hearing about their bond makes him feel hollow inside, lonelier than ever.

But he’s a Hobbit. Hobbits don’t have Ones. His lungs start hurting.

He pulls himself together quickly. He’s just being foolish, as always. He doesn’t need anyone. He’s Bilbo Baggins, bachelor extraordinaire. It’s perfectly fine to be touched by his friend’s story and to empathize with Ori, but he’s been going through a rough recovery, he’s constantly tired and homesick, so maybe he’s just being overly-emotional…

“Are you all right, Mister Bilbo? You don’t look so well… Perhaps I should let you get some rest—I’m sorry for talking so much, I shouldn’t’ve bored you—”

That shakes Bilbo out of his thoughts. “No, no, Ori, I asked you share this with me, thank you for that. Yavanna knows you both deserve to be happy, after all you’ve been through,” he says quickly, forcing himself to smile in order to assure Ori of his truthfulness.

Suddenly, he remembers his plan. He takes advantage of Ori’s remark, pretending to yawn tiredly.

“But sorry, Ori, I do feel rather drained. Thank you for stopping by and for keeping me company, it’s been lovely. Next time, bring Dwalin along, please! I’d like to see how bonded life suits him,” he tells the Dwarf.

Ori is already shrugging his coat back on, beaming at him. “Please feel better soon, Mister Bilbo! We all look forward to showing you around Erebor. And thank you, for everything.”

Bilbo feels a pang of guilt at dismissing him so deceivingly. The Dwarf has only ever been kind to him.

They bid each other goodbye and Bilbo is left alone again. He gets back to his plotting, toying with the Ring inside his pocket, a habit he’s picked up during the journey. He tries hard not to think about things that will never happen. It only makes him sigh in frustration.

There is a phantom tug at his chest and it sickens him. He’s imagining things.

_‘Now is not the time to be maudlin, Baggins. Get it together.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh well, this didn't have any proper Bagginshield in it, but the next chapter will compensate for this one's lack of interaction. Heh. However, I hope you enjoyed the Dwori!  
> Happy November 5th, and remember, remember!


	12. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter is not beta-ed!

Thorin growls in frustration and swings the door to his chambers open, storming in. Damn Dáin, damn his army, damn his requests! He throws aside his coat and starts shoving away papers on his desk, looking for something. He spills ink all over the wooden surface in his hurry, staining documents. The ink bottle topples and falls off the desk, breaking loudly. Shortly, a paperweight that is pushed aside roughly follows it.

He swears, almost yelling, and starts pulling open all his drawers, continuing his desperate search. When he finds what he’s been looking for, hidden in one of the compartments, he collapses in his chair, still fuming. He grabs a small piece of parchment and dips a quill in the puddle of ink that he spilled on his desk and now drips on the floor. He scribbles his message furiously.

He twitches as he waits impatiently for the wax to melt, the spoon shaking in his hand as he holds it over a candle. The seal he’s so desperately looked for is gripped firmly in the other hand, which he keeps balled into a fist, knuckles white.

Balin enters the room quietly, without saying anything, just as Thorin seals the letter. Thorin shoves it in his hands, almost ruining the still-hot seal.

“Send it. Now.”

Balin leaves.

And Thorin is left in the mess he made, holding his head in his hands. The ink keeps on dripping.

 

~*~

 

His legs are shaking, muscles screaming in discomfort, weak and burning. He needs to sit down. He chooses the bed, resisting the urge to lay down and rest his head on the pillow. The blanket is soft under his palms and he digs his fingers in it.

It’s a beautiful room. ‘ _It suits him,_ ’ Bilbo thinks. He can easily picture him, pacing on the gigantic bearskin spread on the floor, sitting at the massive oak desk and leaning back in the comfortable ornate chair, pouring over papers, or sleeping in the oversized bed Bilbo currently sits on. Four Hobbits could sleep in it and they wouldn’t even know there were others in it. He smiles, hand smoothing the creases of the soft quilt.

The room even has windows, white light filtering through the thick glass. Bilbo squints, trying to figure out if it’s snowing or it’s just a trick of the light. There’s a balcony too, and a bathroom Bilbo couldn’t help but peek into, whistling at the size of the bathtub and admiring the wide mirror and its golden frame, studded with sapphires.

The quarters are truly beautiful. They befit a king.

It’s a grave invasion of privacy. His mother would turn over in her grave if she knew. But this has gone too far.

The new quarters even made it easier for Thorin to avoid Bilbo. Bilbo would often ask Óin to let him walk for a bit on the hallway, hoping to encounter him by chance, but that has never happened so far. Apparently, he Royal Quarters have their own set of stairs and access to a secluded gallery through which the occupant could easily sneak out without having to cross the entire Royal Wing.

Yes, it’s gone too far. Two weeks and he’s even received visits from Thranduil and Bard. None from him. He promised, though. Bilbo heard him whisper. Or had it just been a dream?

Something on the nightstand draws his attention. A small satchel rests on the piece of furniture, half open, and a strange, but familiar light glows softly from its insides. _‘No,_ _it can’t be… he keeps it by his bed?_ ’

Anger takes over him. How dare he? After everything that’s happened because of it, he keeps it by his bed? Does he look at it and hold it like it’s the most precious thing in the world? Is it the first thing he sees when he wakes up and the last before he falls asleep?

He reaches out, blindly and hand shaking, clawing at the satchel. Tiny, broken, glowing pieces tumble out from the inside, clinking on the floor at his feet. Oh.

He covers his mouth with his hand, stifling a gasp. Oh, Thorin.

He gets on his knees, in spite of the pain in his wounded side, and gathers the pieces, then he puts the satchel back in its place, just how he found it.

And he waits. He doesn’t dare remove his Ring from his finger.

He doesn’t even remember falling asleep in Thorin’s bed when he’s woken up by a thunderous swing of the door.

 

~*~

 

He watches Thorin’s outburst of anger, shocked and still. It reminds him of darker days, of a Thorin he never wanted to see again. But he shakes it off, knowing this is not that Thorin.

As Thorin sighs and lowers his head down on the desk, resting it against his forearms, Bilbo quietly gets up. His muscles burn, protesting at the strain.

“Thorin.” His voice is soft, warmth filling up his chest at the feeling of Thorin’s name rolling off his tongue.

Thorin barely moves, voice muffled by his arms and coming out as an annoyed grunt, as if it’s not the first time he has to say this today. “No, not now, please.”

Bilbo flinches. What…?

“Thorin?” he tries again, hesitantly.

That makes Thorin’s head shoot up. He gives the room a quick look-over, eyes squinting. Then he looks disappointed at his own action and shuts his eyes tiredly. “You ought to have learnt the lesson by now, Oakenshield, you fool,” he mutters under his breath.

It strikes Bilbo that he’s still wearing the Ring. He removes it quickly, untrimmed nails scratching his finger in the process. He takes a step closer to the desk and Thorin opens his eyes.

Bilbo had prepared a lengthy, thorough speech reflecting his anger at the Dwarf, but he forgets every word of it when Thorin’s blue eyes bore into his. He’s never seen Thorin so baffled and vulnerable and he just wants to—

“How…?” Thorin asks, breathlessly. And it breaks the spell for Bilbo, who suddenly remembers why he’s here.

“No, ‘why’ is a more appropriate question. As in ‘ _why have you been avoiding me?_ ’” He crosses his arms and raises his chin as he taps his foot expectantly against the floor.

Thorin gets up from his chair, rubbing the back of his hand against his forehead and brushing away a few strands of hair from his face. “Master Baggins—” he tries, but Bilbo cuts him off.

“Oh, back to ‘Master Baggins’, are we now? I apologise, _your Majesty_ , I had no idea you have chosen to forget about our friendship entirely. Have the past eight months meant nothing to you?”

He had been willing to hear out Thorin’s explanation, to clarify any possible misunderstandings, but clearly Thorin just wants nothing to do with him. He must be ashamed of their friendship and of how close they’ve grown. After all, a Dwarven King’s best friend can’t possibly be a lowly Hobbit. No wonder Thorin has been avoiding him. He doesn’t want to hear anything anymore. Things are more serious than he’d thought.

Thorin raises a hand, blinking hard. “Halfling, you don’t understand.”

“I think I understand perfectly!” Bilbo huffs, turning his head away. He can’t handle Thorin’s eyes on him anymore. “I was stupid to think that you’ve changed. You’re too stubborn and too proud, perched on that high throne of yours you’ve built out of coldness and hate for everyone else apart from your kin!” his voice comes close to a shout. He looks at Thorin again, and he almost thinks that’s hurt seeping into those blue eyes. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel like shouting anymore. Guilt hits him in searing waves. He shouldn’t have said that.

“But I would’ve jumped between you and Azog regardless,” he goes on, “because I care for you anyway.” There, he finally said it. Might as well go all the way. “What really hurts me, though, is that I thought you cared for me too. Clearly, I was wrong.”

On second thought, it didn’t make sense to Bilbo. If Thorin’s pride is really in the way of their friendship, then how come Thorin let Thranduil step all over it just to save Bilbo? He shakes his head. It doesn’t matter now. He brings his hand to his chest involuntarily, scratching through his tunic at a phantom itch. He wants to leave, but he finds himself glued to the floor, pinned under Thorin’s gaze.

“I do.”

That broken voice makes Bilbo’s heart leap. “What?” he blurts out.

“I do care for you, Bilbo.”

Thorin’s face does a hundred little things at once, and Bilbo can’t help but gape at him.

“I care for you more than you know or could possibly imagine. I did not wish to impose on you or to disturb you while you’re healing. I—I believed you would think ill of me because of my transgressions. I felt I would not have been able to withstand it if you had turned me away. So, to spare us both from an unpleasant interaction, I thought it would be best if I had distanced myself from you. In retrospect, perhaps it was not the best course of action.”

Bilbo blinks slowly. He certainly didn’t expect this. To compensate for his apparent lack of words, he wants to reach out and hug his friend, but Thorin opens his mouth once again.

“However, Bilbo,” the Dwarf continues, voice steady, “there are no words in any language on Arda that would be fit to describe the remorse I feel for what I have put you through. I am aware I have hurt you and put you in danger countless times and I am ashamed beyond measure for even dreaming of obtaining your forgiveness. You have saved my life, Bilbo Baggins, and I, in return, did nothing but threaten yours.”

And Bilbo can’t take it anymore. He steps towards the penitent Dwarf, towards his dear friend, and links his arms around the broad shoulders, reaching up on his tiptoes. “I forgave you a long time ago, you daft Dwarf.” He hugs Thorin tightly, ignoring the protest of his healing wounds. “Quit being so dramatic. It wasn’t your fault, all right? What’s it going to take to get that in your thick skull?”

Thorin breathes out, the warm puff of air tickling Bilbo’s ear. He finally closes his own arms around Bilbo’s body, slowly, as though Bilbo might break or disappear.

“I’m sorry for what I said just now, I didn’t mean it,” Bilbo whispers fiercely, voice creaking. “I _know_ you’ve changed. You’re the best person I know. Forgive me for ever doubting you.”

Thorin tightens the hold on him and buries his head in Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo smiles and puts one of his hands on the top of Thorin’s head, splaying his fingers and curling them. “I’ve missed you,” Bilbo whispers again, smiling even harder.

 

~*~

 

He holds Bilbo as tightly as he dares, knowing his body is still frail. Tears well up in his eyes and his throat constricts, a good kind of feeling this time, however. He hides his face in Bilbo’s shoulder, and he knows he’s blessed to have his One so close. He’s forgiven. He has yet to forgive himself, but his One has forgiven him and this is the happiest he’s ever been.

It does not matter that Bilbo’s feelings do not mirror his in nature. Bilbo holds him in high esteem and cares for him and he could ask for nothing more. It’s enough. The bond is slowly healing and he feels it _sing_. If anything, he wishes Bilbo could feel it too, for the sake of the life fluttering in his chest, making him feel as though he’s just been reborn.

Bilbo pulls away too soon and he seeks to meet his eyes. “Hey,” he says softly and Thorin just wants to hold him tightly again. “Thorin. You saved my life too.”

“It was nothing,” he says, the corner of his lips turning up just a little. And it was nothing. It was nothing compared to the way he’s treated Bilbo before, to what Bilbo has done for him.

“How about we put this behind us? I saved your life and you saved mine. We’re both grateful and all that. We’re even.”

“Agreed.”

“You’re my best friend.”

“And you are mine, as well.”

The quick exchange leaves them both grinning at each other. Who would have thought that weeks of doubt, guilt, and confusion could be easily erased by such a short and simple conversation? The bond thrums pleasantly, but there’s still a faint tug there, almost imperceptible, but it doesn’t even compare to the painful, constant itch that has plagued him before.

There are records of Ones who chose not to be romantically involved. Very few, but it’s not unheard of. They’ve remained best friends, inseparable for the rest of their lives. If others lived with it, so can he.

Thorin’s hands find the Hobbit’s shoulders in a touch he hopes is welcome. “I see you’ve healed well,” he says, squeezing warmly and seeking to comfort them both.

“Mhm, could’ve been better,” Bilbo says smiling, leaning into the touch. Thorin can’t help but bend down and press a firm, affectionate kiss on Bilbo’s forehead. When he pulls back, Bilbo’s eyes are closed, face wearing an expression of pure contentment.

“Come, I shall take you back to your room. You still need rest,” he says, brushing his fingers along Bilbo’s shoulder blades.

Bilbo opens his eyes and pouts. “But I just woke up! I was sleeping quite well until you barged in.”

Thorin looks behind the Hobbit, at his bed, and squints his eyes at the creased sheets. He made the bed in the morning, he knows that much. This means—

“You slept…here?”

“Yes,” Bilbo says simply, stifling an adorable yawn. It’s a wonder what a simple mention of sleep can do to Hobbits. “Was waiting for you. Is that a problem? Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no. It is no problem,” Thorin is quick to assure him. The thought of his One sleeping peacefully in his bed, however, is a problem. He has to take a step back, to lean against his desk, knowing that if he spent another second so close to Bilbo, he might do something he’d regret later.

“Ah, good. What was all that, by the way? You looked positively murderous before. Is there something wrong?”

Thorin pinches the bridge of his nose, remembering the events of this morning. “Have you any cousins, Bilbo?”

Bilbo snorts. “A dozen, or so. Is yours giving you trouble?”

“That would be an understatement,” he deadpans.

Bilbo laughs. “Hmm. Gandalf did, in fact, mention something about Dáin Ironfoot being even more stubborn than you. Kind of hard to imagine, if you ask me,” he teases, eyes glinting.

Thorin shakes his head and rolls his eyes, playing along. He’s ready to start telling Bilbo some story from his childhood about how he and Dáin pulled each other’s hair to no end, but Bilbo suddenly grabs him by the hand and drags him towards the staircase leading down to the main galleries.

“Come on,” the Hobbit says cheerfully, “you’ll tell me what happened over elevensies. I’ve heard all about these kitchens of yours and I haven’t yet had the chance to see them.”

“…Elevensies?” Thorin whispers to himself, bemused. He almost misses the first step and trips himself, as Bilbo laughs, not letting go of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update this! It's shorter than usual, but hopefully the content made up for it :D


	13. A Gift and a Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is not beta-ed!  
> Enjoy! :D

Bilbo finishes buttoning up the waistcoat he had commissioned from Dale, running his hands over the smooth velvet. A welcomed change, since all he’d been wearing since he’s recovered enough to spend time out of bed were some Dwarven tunics that were too big for him anyway.

It’s a wonder how the Men managed to bring the city back to life so fast. The market was loud, crowded and quite prosperous when he visited it just a few days ago. Fíli and Kíli had gone with him on his trip to Dale, looking to renew his wardrobe. Well, not _his_ wardrobe per say, but the one in the room he’s taken permanent residence in, sort of. Not the same room he first woke up in after the battle, but one in the same wing.

Bilbo has no idea why he’s been placed in the Royal Wing, him of all people, when all the other non-royal Dwarves, members of the Company or not, have taken up residence on the lower levels. But his rooms are beautiful. Balin told him they used to be a dayroom, where members of the royal family would hold luncheons and socialise.

It’s not much, just a main room, a bathroom, and, the main feature of interest for Bilbo, a large sunlit terrace. The main room was quickly converted into a bedroom, once Thorin led him one day to show him this part of the wing, asking him if he liked it well enough to move in, for the remainder of his stay here, and Bilbo agreed.

Bilbo fell in love with the terrace, which he immediately thought it’d be perfect for turning into a garden (and panicked for a second, because of the feeling of permanency the thought implied), and with the well-lit room that somehow reminded him of Bag End. He could barely hold himself back from attacking Thorin with a strong hug when the Dwarf made the offer.

He’s made a warm home out of it, and he’s sure that the comfort he feels has much to do with his fast recovery. It’s been more than a month since the battle, and any evidence he’s got left from being a part of it are some angry pink scars and a bit of tiredness in his muscles, that’s started to fade away lately.

He still struggles, though. He gets tired and out of breath fast, he still needs the crutch on some particularly bad days, and he has nightmares almost every night. But he’s slowly getting better, day by day.

He turns around in the mirror, admiring how well the vest fits him. He’s lost some weight, and he’s no longer the chubby Hobbit, freshly plucked from the comforts of Bag End. It’s not what a Hobbit would find attractive, but he thinks his new appearance suits him better anyway.

His hair has grown longer than he’s ever let it, and he’s not bothered by it one bit. He did intend to cut it some days ago, clinging to some Hobbitish instinct of keeping his appearance neat, but he wasn’t surprised to find out that Dwarves have no notion of hair shears. His friends were absolutely scandalised when he inquired after such an instrument and they made a mission out of keeping all objects that could be used to cut hair away from Bilbo.

Ridiculous. As if he couldn’t pickpocket a knife from Fíli. The blond wouldn’t even notice it had gone missing, not with so many others hidden in the multitude of folds and pockets of his clothes. But he decided to respect their wishes and keep his hair intact.

He brushes the long locks away from his face with the back of his hand, turning around to look through the other contents of the package he’d received yesterday from the tailor he saw in Dale. Nothing special, just two pairs of trousers, a few simple shirts, the waistcoat he’s wearing, and some underclothes. He’s also commissioned a coat, but it has yet to arrive. Something to keep him presentable, as he has developed a tendency to get involved in business around the Mountain.

As soon as he felt strong enough, he asked if he could be of help. He hated to be confined to his room and the empty wing, as the others had business about. No such offer came from anyone, so Bilbo started exploring the Mountain on his own, boredom and curiosity getting the best of him.

Ultimately, Thorin took him on a lengthy tour of Erebor, so he would not get lost. It just so happened that he was called away on an urgent meeting while he was showing Bilbo around, and, instead of abandoning the Hobbit, he let him tag along to the meeting. And, of course, Bilbo couldn't just observe and keep quiet through it, and it was for the best, since it appears that Thorin appreciates the insights he offers as an outsider.

Since then, he’s made a habit out of joining Thorin and, on occasions, Fíli and Balin at council meetings and other activities, such as the reopening of sealed tunnels, the clean-up of different halls and rooms, the rebuilding of the gates and many others.

He’s also met Dáin and understood why he gives Thorin such nasty headaches. The two of them are as different as night and day. Thorin being the night, of course, with his usual sullenness and broody-eyes-and-eyebrows thing that intensifies every time he’s near Dáin.

Bilbo often finds it quite amusing, but he knows how it’s like to be on the receiving end of Thorin’s disapproval. It’s all in the past though, and now he’s more than happy that his friendship with Thorin is back on the right track, bringing them closer than they’ve been on the road.

Things are going great for him. For Thorin too. He’s fulfilled the quest, Erebor is being revived, he’ll rightfully become King sometime next month, as Dáin and his lords pressed him to finally call upon the High Priest to officiate the coronation. Thorin has summoned him, and it should take a while for the Priest to get a caravan going from the Iron Hills, where he’s been residing since Erebor was taken from the Dwarves.

The High Priest’s blessing is the only way of assuring that Thorin’s throne becomes rightfully his, leaving no room for any possible contestations. Not that any have been pressed, anyway, but with the Arkenstone gone, some of the Dwarven clans and families might refuse to accept Thorin as their rightful King. A standard coronation, just as the ones held before Thrór declared the Arkenstone the symbol of the ruler, will be necessary in order to make Thorin’s rule indubitable.

Folding his other clothes, Bilbo wishes he had a coat to go with the more formal attire he’s donned, since it gets quite chilly in the Mountain sometimes. Not in his rooms, where the heating is actually excellent, but down in the Main Hall, where there’s going to be a banquet tonight. It’s Fíli’s birthday today.

Thorin has made sure that the future Crown Prince’s birthday will be no small feat. Apparently, according to Dwarf-reckoning, the 83rd birthday is a significant mile in a Dwarf’s life, similar to a coming of age. Bilbo has always seen the two brothers as youngsters, a bit older than tweens, but he’s never thought Fíli has seen over _eighty_ springs.

Bilbo laughs to himself. He’ll turn fifty-six this spring himself. Who would’ve thought this year of his life would play out like this? He wonders how he’ll spend this birthday. Probably in Bag End, hiding away the treasures he’s brought back home from the likes of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins…

A knock on the door pulls him back from his thoughts. Is it time already? He smoothens the creases in vest one more time before hurrying to open it. None other than Thorin Oakenshield stands on the other side, a paper package tied with string safely tucked in his arms.

“When you said you’d stop by, I didn’t actually believe you’d come and pick me up for the feast,” Bilbo says wittily, remembering what Thorin had said over breakfast earlier today. He smiles, assessing Thorin’s kingly attire. “Come in.”

“I am a Dwarf of my word.” Thorin hides his smirk in his beard, stepping in.

“And I am underdressed, if I’m to take your attire as a standard,” Bilbo points out, eyeing the rings on Thorin’s fingers. They’re not gold, as Bilbo would’ve expected, but silver, quite simple and lacking in shiny jewels.

“It is my eldest nephew’s birthday, I will look nothing if not presentable,” the Dwarf replies. He then holds out the package in his arms toward Bilbo. “And so will you, if you accept to wear this tonight.”

“Ah, so you admit that I’m not presentable! You know, this a grave insult to bring upon a Hobbit…” Bilbo jests, tearing the paper and revealing the coat he’d commissioned from Dale. Confused, he lets the packaging fall to the floor, taking out the neatly folded garment so he can get a look at it. Only it’s not the exact same coat he’d ordered. He gasps.

“I had Dori intercept it when it arrived yesterday. Jewellery might not be the right way for a Hobbit to speak of his status in this Mountain, but the coat will do,” Thorin explains.

In the dark blue material of the simple coat he’d commissioned there is an intricate silver pattern sewn beautifully along the hems, a pattern he’s seen on Thorin, Fíli and Kíli’s clothing. Apart from that, there is grey fur on the shoulders and collar of the coat, a detail he did not talk about with the tailor. He buries his fingers in it, surprised at how soft it is.

He’s stunned to find out that is not all. He turns it the coat around in his hands, and he’s even more marvelled at the geometric symbol sewn in silver across the back of the coat. A symbol that Bilbo has noticed on Thorin’s ring and brooch.

“This must have taken Dori all day!” Bilbo exclaims, running a hand over the symbol and feeling the complicated stitches under his fingers.

“All day, and all night, in fact,” Thorin specifies.

Bilbo stares at him incredulously, mouth agape. “Thorin, I really don’t know what to say…”

“Then do not say anything,” the Dwarf replies simply and approaches him to take the coat from Bilbo’s hands. He then holds it out, behind Bilbo's back, expecting the Hobbit to shrug it on.

Bilbo does so. “Thank you, truly. It is a beautiful gift," he notes with gratitude, as Thorin cards his hands over the fur on Bilbo's shoulders, arranging it.

“I’ll make sure Dori knows you admire his craftsmanship.”

“But he did not do this on his own now, did he?” Bilbo asks, already knowing the answer. He catches a look of himself in the mirror and smiles. The matching coat and vest do look splendid. He can’t help but notice that the reflection of Thorin in the background matches his, because of the blue and silver on both their clothing.

He turns around to face the Dwarf. “Thank _you_ , Thorin.”

“You are most welcome, Halfling. I hope it will serve you well.”

Bilbo has no doubt that the coat will indeed keep him warm, but he doesn’t know what kind of reaction it will incite, him bearing the symbols of Durin’s line on his clothing, especially with Iron Hills Dwarves watching him warily as he attends meetings and other events that do not concern a Hobbit in any way.

Surely, Thorin must have noticed, and the coat is his way of weighing in. He’s basically declaring him to be an honorary member of his family. He doesn’t have to say it out loud for Bilbo to understand. And Bilbo’s most grateful for the gesture.

“I honestly thought the package was a gift for Fíli! Not the coat you’ve stolen from me to alter!” Bilbo said, rotating his wrists to admire the patterns dancing on the sleeves.

Thorin raises an inquiring eyebrow. “Is it customary for Hobbits to present one with gifts on one’s birthday?”

“Well, yes. Is it not the same for Dwarves?”

The Dwarf shakes his head. “It is the other way around. On birthdays, if he chooses so, a Dwarf will gift the ones he holds dear, such as family and friends, to thank them for being a part of his life.”

“Ah, it makes sense, I suppose,” Bilbo says, absorbing the bit of Dwarven culture. There’s still much to learn about Dwarves, and Bilbo’s native curiosity and thirst for knowledge always makes him pay attention every time a Dwarf shares titbits of the like, since they, as a people, are not keen on revealing their well-guarded secrets.

A pause issues between the two of them.

“Will you do me the honour of escorting you to the banquet tonight?” Thorin asks formally, on a serious tone.

Bilbo laughs lightly, thinking nothing of the gravity in Thorin’s voice. “A gift _and_ an invitation? I might as well believe that the great King of Erebor is trying to court me, a lowly Hobbit!” he heartily jokes.

Thorin laughs too, but it comes out a bit more forced than he probably means to. All right, maybe Bilbo’s joke wasn’t that funny. That’s not an idea to toy with, he realises.

“I’ll let you escort me, but only as long as you don’t leave me alone with those boring Iron Hill Dwarves,” Bilbo says, grinning.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Thorin replies, opening the door and holding out his arm for Bilbo to grab.

 

~*~

 

The walk to the Main Hall is uneventful, marked only by the feeling of Bilbo’s small hand on his arm as the Hobbit walks alongside him, honouring his invitation. The feast is shortly off to a great start, food and drink going around, lively music bringing the room to life.

After receiving congratulations from everyone present, Fíli goes around the table, giving the gifts he’s prepared to the members of the Company. Thorin stares at the other side of the table, in the general direction of Bilbo, trying not to look like he’s pining, but failing miserably.

Perhaps it was not the most inspired of approaches. Bilbo did accept his gift and his invitation, but he brushed off the meaning and somehow believed that the intention could only be taken as a joke.

Damn Balin and his ideas. Trying to court Bilbo the old fashioned way (the Hobbit way, as well, as Ori had assured him, after the young scribed sneakily obtained this bit of information from Bilbo by steering a conversation the right way some days ago) obviously won’t work.

He’s both amazed and annoyed by the number of Dwarves in his Company who have come to know his position. Dwalin said he figured it out when they were waiting for Thranduil to receive them, when Thorin was desperate to find a way to save Bilbo. He wouldn’t have noticed Thorin’s torment and its roots unless he hadn’t experienced the feeling as well, during the battle, when he was away from Ori and couldn’t protect him.

And, of course, what Dwalin knows, Ori knows. Thorin would lie if he said he doesn’t secretly wish that his bond with Bilbo would become at least half of what Ori and Dwalin’s bond is. Ori’s sensible side is a somewhat peculiar trait, often ridiculed, considering that Dwarves are anything but sensible, but the young scribe has given some solid advice on the matter, and Thorin appreciates it. Ori’s romantic view and knowledge of Hobbitish customs have been of great help.

Balin said he’s known for some time, having realised their potential during the journey. He claims that any fool can notice it, if they know where to look. He keeps on saying Thorin’s an idiot for not pursuing it right away, because the old Dwarf is sure that Bilbo feels the same. Thorin, of course, doesn’t believe him. Maybe Balin is finally approaching senility.

Fíli and Kíli, on the other hand, are surprisingly… quiet about it.

Kíli understands his state and that is why he was able to tell just by watching Thorin react to Bilbo’s fever, like Dwalin did. He joked about taking after his Uncle in his predisposition for exotic Ones. Tauriel, another soul knowing about his condition, wanted to laugh, but she eyed Thorin sadly instead.

Fíli confessed to having overheard a conversation between him and Gandalf. Well, Fíli doesn’t know what it means to feel the tug of a One, like Thorin and Kíli have always felt in some way, and this could be why Fíli chooses not to say much on the matter, and also why he was clueless before.

He was prepared to intervene, had his nephews set one of their famous schemes in motion, but no such moment has yet come. Perhaps they’re growing up. They even said they’d support their Uncle in any decision he is to take. Thorin expects that is as long as he makes the _right_ choice.

And the right choice, in the eyes of everyone who knows about this, is to give traditional courting a chance. Maybe he’ll wake Bilbo up by romancing him off his feet, in their words.

But in his eyes, it’s the wrong choice. Bilbo’s jokes clearly showed him that. The Hobbit failed to see Thorin’s true intentions, a sign that makes him think that Bilbo might never regard him in such a way. He should have settled just for Bilbo’s kind forgiveness and his friendship.

Seeing that the coat brought him joy made him satisfied, at least. It was Fíli’s idea, the coat. He suggested it right after he’d returned with Bilbo from Dale. It will offer him protection against the vile words he’s heard whispered behind Bilbo’s back, coming from xenophobic Iron Hills Dwarves. Or it might make things worse. Thorin hopes that will not be the case. He feels that the coat was the right move, though. Watching Bilbo’s eyes light up was just a bonus.

As of late, he’s been more and more driven by the bond, which seeks to mend itself. Before Bilbo reached out, he even hallucinated about his Hobbit One, hearing his voice and catching glimpses of him, when Bilbo was clearly not present. He supposed it was because he forced himself to stay away for two weeks.

He thought he was having another episode, another manifestation of his yearning, when Bilbo showed up in his room, with a mind to fix everything between them. Such things have ceased to happen now that Bilbo never quite leaves his side nowadays, joining him in his attempts to be an involved ruler.

However, sometimes, he has to stop himself from reaching out, from planting a caress, from saying things that would be unwelcomed, and he has to put some distance between him and his One before, Mahal help him, he does something that would ruin everything.

In a way, his friends and nephews are right. He’s got to try every option. He might not be worthy of his One, but the pull is too strong, and it’s driving him insane. It’s caught the taste of belonging, of contentment, and it wants more. _Thorin_ wants more.

To blame it all on just the bond would be unfair. It’s something settled deep within his bones, an itch, a calling, but it’s also a beautiful thought, pure and honest yearning, hopes, wishes and dreams that are cradled in his mind and soul, that were there long before the bond started forming. And he’ll be damned if he won’t try to bring them to life.

He snaps back to reality, pulled back from his line of thoughts, as Bilbo blushingly receives a book from Fíli.

“…think you’ll really like it, it’s one of our most famous love ballads, and it’s a translated copy…” Thorin hears over the music and he stiffens. Fíli might be meddling in more than he tells Thorin. It was one thing to make suggestions to Thorin, but to gift Bilbo with a ballad that can be none other than _The Tale of Màr and Hûlir_ , the most representative love poem in their culture?

He shakes it off. Bilbo might not even read it. And if he does, it will not mean he’ll figure out anything. But the ballad is dear to Thorin. He’s read it countless times and he knows to play it on the harp by heart.

It’s a tragic tale, of a lowly Dwarrowdam, Màr, who finds her One in a warrior prince, Hûlir, who was already promised to another. As she had spotted him during a parade, and known in an instant that her heart was his, she tries to meet with him, to wake him up as well. The cruel realities of Dwarven society ranks stop her, and she gives up all hope of ever seeing her One again, knowing he’ll soon wed.

A war starts, however, stopping the wedding that would’ve taken place. She takes advantage of that and learns how to wield a sword, enlists, and starts climbing her way up the prince’s army’s ranks. She becomes a general, and reveals herself to him before a great battle, the prince himself confessing that he’d noticed her among his soldiers from the very start, and known for a while that their hearts belong together.

They share a night together, aware that it is not only their first, but it might also be their last. She dies protecting him and he joins her in death immediately after, refusing to live without her.

He unconsciously starts to hum his favourite part of it, and doesn’t even notice Fíli approaching him, smirking as if he knows what he’s done.

“This is for you, Uncle,” the blond Dwarf says, handing Thorin a small wooden box. Thorin takes it, and opens the lid. There are two pipes inside, one larger than the other. “They’re made from the same oak branch,” Fíli explains. “When I saw them in the market the other week, I just knew they were made for you and Bilbo.”

Thorin looks at him warmly, a lovely image of him and Bilbo peacefully smoking next to each other on Bilbo’s terrace invading his mind. He sighs, chasing the picture away. The gift is truly remarkable. “Thank you, Fíli, they are quite fitting.”

Fíli grins brightly. “Thought so too. Seek him out and ask him to share a smoke one of these days. You never know what it might lead to.” He winks.

“ _Fíli_ …” Thorin warns him that he’s treading dangerous waters. He quickly looks around to see if anyone’s heard his nephew’s allusion. There is no one near them, thankfully.

Fíli just rolls his eyes. “Go ask him for a dance, please. It’s my birthday, and I won’t have you sulking in your seat. Drink some wine, toughen up, and take our Hobbit for a spin!” And he’s off, patting Thorin on his back.

Thorin shakes his head, amused and horrified at the same time. He locks eyes with Bilbo from the other side of the table, a timid smile playing at the Hobbit’s lips. He does his best to return it.

He takes a swig out of his wine cup just as Bofur takes charge of the fiddle and Nori of the flute, a combination that can only end badly for his guests. The lively tune the two of them start with is even giving _him_ jittery feet. Swallowing, he stands up.

Bilbo is studiously captured by the first page of the volume he’s just received from Fíli, and Thorin almost doesn’t dare to disrupt him. But as he approaches the Hobbit, Bilbo notices him without Thorin having to announce himself, almost as if he’d felt the Dwarf coming his way. Bilbo smiles widely at him.

“Would you care to dance?” he asks directly, straightening his back. Seeing that Bilbo hesitates slightly, eyeing the book and the still full platter of food. “That is, if you feel you are recovered enough—” he tries to give the Hobbit a reason to refuse him if he wants so.

Instead, Bilbo bites his lips lightly, holding back a grin. “There’s nothing I’d love more.”

So Thorin extends his hand for Bilbo to take. The Hobbit gets up, placing his hand in Thorin’s. Thorin almost flinches back because of the electricity coursing through his body the second skin touches skin.

“I must warn you, though, we Hobbits are unmatched when it comes to dancing,” Bilbo notes cheekily.

“Is that so? Well, I believe you don’t have me at a disadvantage, as I am fairly quick on my feet as well,” Thorin retorts in the same manner.

“Oh, we shall see, your Majesty,” Bilbo says jauntily, following his lead to the dancefloor.

They somehow end up in the middle of the room, ignoring the fact that they have captured everyone’s attention. Many other pairs follow their example. A cheerful Kíli, along with his Elven sweetheart, recently freed from the hinges of his cast joins them, after consoling Ori, who pouts with his arms crossed and throws sideway glances at his One, who keeps refusing to dance.

As a result of the unbalanced Dwarrow to Dwarrowdam ratio that is not only a given in their race, but is much more pronounced among warriors, there not many Dwarrowdams among them. Perhaps one in thirty Dwarves. So, there are many pairs of male Dwarves joining them, either made up out of comradery or out of romance, a thing that is not uncommon in Dwarven culture.

Some of Dáin’s soldiers do try their luck with the few female healers that were brought along with them, but none of them dare to approach warrior Dwarrowdams. They would rather expect them to make a move themselves, if they wish to.

A wise choice, perhaps, Thorin inclines to think. All Dwarrowdams have a spark of feistiness in them, but warrior females even more so, as few as they are, and Mahal help the ones who cross them.

He thinks of Dáin’s highest ranking general, a Dwarrowdam who can only be bested by his sister in fierceness and stubbornness. He’d hate to imagine what would happen to the poor soul who would dare ask her to dance, only to be met with refusal. Ygsal, her name was? One of the many generals and lords Dáin surrounds himself with, one of the many who Thorin feels has no reason to trust.

He throws a glance over to her. She’s leaning against a wall in the corner of the large hall, eyeing the dancefloor warily. Still fitted in her heavy armour, even at a banquet. Thorin is almost offended, as the host, as this shows lack of trust, but he doesn’t care much for that.

He huffs. Incidentally, her piercing gaze meets his. She squints at him, then subtly nods, in a silent acknowledgement. Thorin averts his eyes shortly, focusing his attention back on Bilbo.

Bilbo’s hand lets go of his. He aligns himself to Thorin’s side, linking their hips together, while his arm finds its way across his waist, settling on Thorin’s other hip.

Thorin breathes in sharply, noting how the Hobbit’s smaller frame fits so perfectly against him. Bilbo raises a brow at him, a somewhat shy smirk blooming on his face, fully expecting Thorin to mirror his actions.

As his eyes shift between the Hobbit’s eyes and his lips in a manner that he knows must be telling, he puts his own arm around Bilbo’s waist, fingers settling contently on the Hobbit’s hip, thus taking the position required for the start of the dance.

Thorin forgets about everything else, about anyone present. They spin slowly, once, twice. Their eyes are locked on each other, almost in a silent challenge, smiles forgotten and replaced by intensity and a sort of tension that brings energy to their moves.

Thorin wonders if Bilbo feels the unique sense of belonging that keeps him anchored in this moment, as he lifts the Hobbit in the air, following the tune.

He regretfully has to let go of his One, as pairs break into opposite rows, for the steps of a longway dance. His heart pounds loudly in his chest, only to stop for a second and then begin again, even more loudly than before, each time his hand meets Bilbo’s again to follow the patterns of the dance. At some point, he doesn’t even hear the music anymore, just the hammering of his heart, threatening to burst out of his chest.

Soon, they both forget the silent challenge they posed to each other when they first started to dance, only to exchange smiles and chuckle together, as the tune picks up in speed, forcing them to follow the steps much quicker.

Right then, instead of giving in to the fast-paced moment, time simply seems to slow down, maybe just not for Thorin, but for Bilbo as well. He thinks this, as he catches Bilbo’s eyes and they share a smile, different from all the others they’ve shared before, a smile that perhaps is enough to give him reason to _hope_.

When the music comes to halt and the room cheers and claps, the spell is broken. Bilbo looks away from him, breathing heavily. “I—please excuse me, I need some air,” he says gravely, in a hurry to get away from Thorin, and then heads for the balconies.

Thorin doesn’t say anything as he’s left on his own in the middle of dozen other pairs on the floor, brows furrowing in confusion. Has he done something wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! I only write at two speeds: it's either 3.5k words written in a single day or just 200 written over a month ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Hopefully this lengthy chapter full of interaction and feels redeems me :D We're getting closer and closer to Bilbo realizing s t u f f ahah ;) ;) ;) This was written in quite some hurry, so I apologize if there are any mistakes!
> 
> I've pictured the dance as one of those society dances from the 18-19th century you see in tv shows like Poldark (ahem, Aidan Turner, ahem) or North and South (ahem, Richard Armitage, ahem), or in movies like Pride and Prejudice. No idea why. But I think it's the prefect combination between the wild country dances that Hobbits would have in the Shire and the more formal ones that would be danced at a royal Dwarven banquet (not that Dwarves would be formal if they were to dance by the fire or in some tavern, they'd probably be wilder than Hobbits, but still, it's a royal banquet).  
> Btw, I highly recommend Poldark, the BBC series from 2015 (with A I D A N T U R N E R, whose on-screen-sweetheart is, yet again, a beautiful redhead!! like a reincarnated Kiliel by the Cornish seaside!! jkjk, they don't really resemble Kiliel, but STILL). It's amazing, I'm truly in love with it. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Please drop a line down in the comments and let me know what you liked/disliked, if you have any questions, remarks, or anything!! And don't forget to click on the kudos button ;)


	14. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is not betaread!

Kíli frowns as the dance comes to an end. Something’s not right. He pauses, still holding Tauriel’s hand. She senses what’s caught his attention through their bond, and so, he doesn’t have to spare the time to tell her. He turns around just to see the Hobbit leaving the hall in a hurry, a seemingly lost Thorin left alone in the middle of the floor.

That can’t be good.

“C’mon,” he says to Tauriel, tugging her hand towards the table, where Fíli, Ori, and Dwalin are seated next to each other.

“Saw that too, huh?” Fíli says to them once they reach the table.

Ori tuts, and Dwalin shakes his head, taking a gulp of wine and pursing his lips afterwards. This could be a setback.

“Yeah,” Kíli admits sourly. “What happened?” he asks.

“I really couldn’t say,” Fíli shrugs. “They didn’t speak during the dance, I watched them. So it couldn’t have been Uncle ruining everything with his poorly chosen words.”

If they didn’t speak, then what happened…?

They all look at each other, realising what this could mean.

“D’ya think the Halfling woke up?” Dwalin is the one to ask, voice a hoarse whisper.

Kíli bites his lips and bounces on the heels of his feet. Their plan is working! There’s going to be no more tension, Thorin will be happy, they’re all going to grow old in the Mountain and he’ll get a new Uncle!

Tauriel does the equivalent of a mental eye roll through the bond, having heard his thoughts. He turns his head towards her, pulling out his tongue childishly.

“Let’s not get too excited,” Ori says, eyeing Kíli. “We can’t know for sure. Maybe his wounds bothered him.”

“I don’t think so, he could still run out the door without looking bothered,” Tauriel argues. “And Thorin would’ve helped him.”

Fíli clicks his tongue, standing up. “I’m going to check on him. He could be unwell.” Kíli nods, moving aside so his brother could go past him to search for the Hobbit.

“Mahal save us all, this night is gonna end in bloodshed,” Dwalin suddenly says, slamming his elbows on the table and placing his head in his hands.

Kíli, Tauriel, and Ori quickly turn around to see what could have possibly caused Dwalin’s remark and they can only groan in unison. Dwalin might just be right.

 

~*~

 

Thorin returns to his seat, the rush he’d felt being replaced by disappointment. He knows he should keep up appearances in front of his subjects, but he feels lightheaded. Should he go after Bilbo? He doesn’t have time to ponder, as the seat next to him, originally having belonged to Fíli, is filled by Dáin. He sighs. A talk with his tipsy cousin is the last thing he needs right now.

“’Evening, cousin. How do you fare?” Dáin’s voice scratches unpleasantly at his eardrum.

He puts the best of his diplomat smiles on his face. “Good evening, Dáin, I have never been better. Are the celebrations to your liking?”

“Aye, you couldn’t have hosted a better gathering, cousin! Congratulations on that elder nephew of yours, he’s going to make a fine Prince Under the Mountain,” Dáin offers, helping himself to a decanter of wine in Thorin’s vicinity and pouring himself a considerable quantity.

“So I should think,” Thorin agrees. He declines when Dáin suggestively pushes the decanter his way. No more wine for him tonight.

“Ah, where has that splendid creature you keep near gone? I do recall seeing you two dancing earlier. Lately the two of you have been joined at the hip, it’s odd that he’s slipped away at this joyous time.”

Thorin grinds his teeth together, not only at the way Dáin speaks of Bilbo, but also at the mere allusions. He ends up reaching for the decanter after all; nobody irks Thorin as Dáin does, just with a few well-placed (or misplaced?) words.

“He needed some air, he’s still recovering from his wounds,” he says, keeping his voice casual and pouring himself some wine.

“And you did not think he could use your company? Not a good thing, leaving your dear friend all by himself when he struggles with recovery… But perhaps it’s for the best that he’s not nearby.”

Thorin stiffens slightly at his cousin’s ominous words, hand tightening the hold on his wine cup.

“I know better than to pester you, Thorin,” Dáin continues. “We’ve discussed this before, but you have failed to give me a clear answer. I believe I understand why, but I need to be sure. You know me, always sticking my nose where it don’t belong, but this more than me being interested in my cousin’s life. We’re talking about the future of Erebor. And more importantly, _your_ future.”

Thorin sees where he’s heading. He stiffens, then quickly looks around, aware that anyone could be listening in to their conversation. He can never be too cautious.

Dáin’s mentioned the prospect of a royal marriage two more times since that dreadful breakfast weeks ago. He has mentioned eager ladies at his court, wealthy merchants’ daughters, his own nieces, even, and Thorin has had to find excuses every time. It is true that a King should not remain unmarried, but it is not mandatory that he weds. Denying Dáin upfront, however, might send the wrong message. So he’s brushed off the matchmaking offers with jokes and vague promises, in hope that Dáin will stop asking. His hope was obviously misplaced.

“Dáin…” he tries, but Dáin simply raises his palm, interrupting him.

“Tell me, cousin—no, you don’t even have to say it out loud, I just need to see your reaction. Does this have anything to do with the Halfling?”

Dáin’s eyes are conveying nothing but concern and honesty, something which stops Thorin from reacting quickly, with sharp words and faked shock. To Thorin’s anguish, Dáin notices his hesitation and gives him a sympathetic smile, preceded by an enlightened expression.

“Guessed as much. You are quite obvious, but worry not, it’s because I have known you my entire life and I knew where to look. Your secret, as I assume it is a secret, is more than safe with me. Though I must say I am not surprised, finding out that your One is none other than the kind Hobbit who helped you take back Erebor. It seems like it is simply meant to be.”

At his cousin’s honest declarations, the sense of dread coursing through Thorin’s blood starts to fade and Thorin leans back into the chair, elbow against the armrest. He rubs at his temple with his fingers, averting his gaze from Dáin’s. He grits his teeth, hating to be so vulnerable, as though he is on display under his cousin’s eyes.

“Tell me this, however. The Halfling looks as though he’s entirely unaware. Do you intend to pursue it?”

Thorin’s first instinct is to bark out a _‘that’s none of your damned business’,_ but he bites the inside of his cheek. He’s got no reason to react in such a way, since Dáin is simply showing founded concern toward his cousin and King. It might even _be_ his business, since it involves family and, as much as Thorin hates to admit, politics. The truth is already out, anyway.

“Yes,” he says plainly, voice rough and tense. He almost tells Dáin of how he struggled to stay away and failed miserably, unable to resist the pull. Dáin would’ve understood, he married his One. But it’s too raw, too personal, and opening up, even when faced with kindness and understanding, is not an easy thing to do for him.

This reply might even help him get rid of Dáin faster, anyway.

“Good!” Dáin exclaims, clapping his palms once. He then proceeds to squeeze Thorin’s shoulder, strongly than needed, or welcomed. Thorin winces. “That’s all I needed to know. Maybe one of these days we’ll talk more about it.”

Thorin finds that unlikely. As he fails to deliver a reply, Dáin stands up. “Very well then. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavour. Perhaps I’ll line up those Dwarrowdams for Fíli someday.”

Thorin forces a smile and finally looks up at his cousin. “Perhaps.”

Dáin inclines his head, grinning. “Do try to enjoy this cheery evening, cousin. It’s not every day that your nephew becomes of age.” And he’s leaving Thorin’s side, allowing Thorin to wallow in self-pity.

 

~*~

 

Bilbo breathes in the harsh winter air, attempting to calm his racing heart. His lungs hurt and wheeze as he inhales sharply. There’s nobody in sight on the balconies, and he’s grateful for the privacy, in spite of the cold rattling his bones.

He doesn’t understand what just happened. One moment he’s dancing with Thorin, enjoying himself, the other he feels like he can’t breathe, like he’s been struck by something— _lightning_?, his mind provides. Something lit the entirety of his nerves on fire, panic making him lose control over his heart and lungs.

It not—it’s not a panic attack, however. He’s had those before, those are usually terrifying and immobilising. This _thing_ , while much less frightening, was almost pleasant, like the gentle warmth of fire sending ripples on his skin, as he’s lulled to sleep by sweet wine, combined with something akin to a quick spark of electricity cackling and making his way from his head and chest towards the tips of his fingers and toes.

He couldn’t help but stagger and excuse himself, unable to identify whatever it is that had taken over him. It wasn’t the ale he had during the feast, nor the food. His wound hasn’t been acting up, either.

Whatever it is, it’s still afflicting him, settling as some kind of _ache_ in his chest. Is he getting ill? Has he caught some kind of odd Dwarven disease? He’ll have to ask Thorin about that…

 _Thorin_. The Dwarf whom he rudely left alone in the middle of the dancefloor. Bilbo winces, bringing up a hand to rub at his chest. He’ll have to apologise. He feels like smacking himself.

But for now, he leans against the rail that’s too tall for him, supporting his chin and cheek on the frozen stone. He’ll likely catch a cold, but he’s unwilling to return to the feast yet, not until he’s calmed down.

As his heartbeats become less and less erratic, there’s a feeling settling in his bones, telling him that he’s supposed to be somewhere right now, that he’s forgetting something, except he doesn’t know where, what, and most importantly, _why_.

 

~*~

 

Kíli kicks off his boots, without caring where they land, with a thud that makes Tauriel frown. He flings himself on the bed, sighing in contentment. The feast has worn him out, but now’s not the time to answer the call of his soft mattress and silky beddings, so he resists the urge to climb under the covers.

“We’ve got to do something, Uncle is miserable. I mean, he was miserable before, too, when Bilbo was comatose, but now that they’re actually talking and spending time together… it honestly pains me to see him like that. Well, actually, I think it’s kind of funny, seeing His Majestic Majesty pine like that, but then I remember I know the feeling, and it’s suddenly not so funny anymore.”

Tauriel smiles fondly, knowing all too well what he means. She joins him on the bed, lounging gracefully by his side, sliding her hand in his. He instinctively links their fingers, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

“You know I’m usually against intervening in matters of other’s hearts, but in this case, when those two are _this_ oblivious, I might indeed agree with you.”

Kíli turns his head in her direction, grinning. He presses a quick kiss to her lips, almost with glee. “All right, any ideas, fellow troublemaker?”

Tauriel scrunches up her nose. “I am no troublemaker.”

“You’re set to marry the most renowned troublemaker in this part of the continent, if not in the whole Middle-earth. I think this makes you a troublemaker by default.”

“Is that so?” Tauriel asks playfully, rolling over him and trapping his head between her hands, pinning him against the mattress with her body, by straddling his hips.

Kíli places his hands on her hips, raising his eyebrows in a silent dare. Then he drags the tips of his fingers along her ribs, making Tauriel twitch and arch in laughter. Oh, the joys of having a ticklish One.

They end up kissing, after all, when Kíli realises that this activity is much more entertaining than tickling Tauriel, even though that one has its merits too.

“I could try talking to Bilbo. With subtlety, of course,” Tauriel suggests, when she rolls off him with rosy cheeks.

“Fíli and Ori have already tried that, and they’re the most sensible of the bunch. Any other Dwarf would rather do more damage than good, but I suppose you could get to him in other ways. He’s quite fond of Elven culture.”

“I have noticed. I shall seek him out tomorrow,” she declares, then she frowns, raising herself on her elbows. “Nobody’s seen him since the feast, right? And Fíli couldn’t find him after he took off. Do you think we should check on him?”

Kíli lifts himself up too. Just as he’s about to deliver his reply, the door bursts open, startling the both of them. Kíli instinctively draws up a dagger from the bedside table and Tauriel jumps off the bed, in a combat-ready position.

The scene sends Fíli, a slightly drunk Fíli, into a fit of giggles, which has him leaning against the door he’s just opened.

“Bilbo is—hiccup—in his room. Uncle is still brooding in the Hall. And I think I drank too much,” the blond deadpans with a perceptible slur.

Kíli rolls his eyes and guides his brother to bed, taking off his boots but not bothering to cover him with blankets. Fíli mumbles something indistinguishable before falling asleep as soon as his head falls on the pillow. When Kíli steps back, shaking his head and chuckling, Tauriel motions for him to come join her under Kíli’s own blankets.

“At least we know the Hobbit is safely in his quarters. There’s not much else we can do tonight. Come warm me up, I’m cold,” she says.

And while Kíli knows that his Uncle would vehemently protest against it and that he specifically asked Kíli to not share a bed with his One before they’re married (over the night, for otherwise, that ship has already sailed, not that his Uncle needs to know), he’s cold as well.

The next morning, Tauriel manages to escape from her One’s hold and from the tangled sheets, fully intending to play a part in the Hobbit’s awakening. When she returns with a tray of breakfast, without even having knocked at Bilbo’s door, she sneaks back into bed and smirks when Kíli welcomes her with a warm embrace and questions.

“It seems my help is not needed, after all,” she answers playfully.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Thorin clutches the wooden box tightly in his hand, breathing in sharply. He’s right outside Bilbo’s door, willing himself to just knock and face his One, in hope he’d be welcomed. This is not a position he feels comfortable in. While mentally preparing himself in front of the door, he’s already encountered the redheaded Elf, who had obviously emerged from Fíli and Kíli’s room. He squinted at her in the hallway, making her stagger in her confident stride, and not quite buying her excuse of seeking breakfast.

He traces the elegant carvings on the box with his fingers before finally raising his hand and knocking at the door confidently. Several seconds full of uncertainty pass until he hears the Hobbit’s voice, assuring him that the door will be opened.

Bilbo greets him with a smile, and the rush of relief that hits Thorin is almost painful. The Hobbit is still in his nightwear, a robe tied tightly around him.

“Have I woken you up?” Thorin asks, also noticing the unmade bed, once they exchange greetings and Bilbo invites him inside.

“No, I have just finished eating,” Bilbo says, pointing towards the empty plates on his table. “Sorry about the mess, it’s been a lazier morning than usual.” He guides Thorin toward an armchair by the recently rekindled fire, then he crosses his arms, still standing. “I’m also terribly sorry for taking off like that last evening, there’s no excuse for my behaviour and I’ve no idea what came over me. I suppose it was because of my wounds.”

Thorin frowns. “You need not apologise. Have you been to the infirmary?” he asks worriedly.

“I just needed some air and a wrap on the evening, regretfully. I’m all right now. I’ll have to apologise to Fíli for leaving in the middle of the festivities. Have I missed anything of importance?”

“I put an end to my evening shortly after your own departure, so I’m afraid I’m not the right Dwarf to ask about last night’s drunken mishaps,” Thorin says.

Bilbo laughs lightly, then finally takes a seat himself by the fireplace. “What do you have there?” he asks curiously, craning his neck to eye the wooden box.

“Ah, nothing but my reason to seek you out this fine morning,” Thorin says in a mock ceremonial tone, lifting the lid of the box. “Would you care for a smoke?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how sorry I am for not updating this for almost half a year. But I've been having some personal issues and I find it hard to write when I'm not at peace with myself. But this fic is _not_ abandoned and I hope that the next updates will come much, much sooner and that they'll be longer than this one.
> 
> If you've enjoyed this chapter, please feel free to comment and motivate me through kudos! Let me know your thoughts :D


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